


Synergy

by White Aster (white_aster)



Category: Final Fantasy XII, Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Amputation, Community: scifibigbang, Gen, Illustrated, Recovery, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-12
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:26:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_aster/pseuds/White%20Aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where advanced mechanics and firepower rub elbows with high magic and ancient relics, Zolf Kimberly has built the Crimson Flames into the best mercenary company east of Archadia.  Combining infantry with elemental black magic, the Flames are versatile, professional, highly effective, and willing to ground your enemy to dust for the right price.  This is the tale of the Crimson Flames and their devious Captain, whose tendency to gather what others throw away reaps him a larger reward than he ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue:  Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> **Author name:** White Aster  
>  **Artist name:** [Darthneko](http://darthneko.deviantart.com/)  
>  **Beta name:** [Penny](http://penny.dreamwidth.com/)  
>  **Challenge:** [Scifi/Fantasy Big Bang on Dreamwidth](scifibigbang.dreamwidth.org)  
>  **Fandom:** Fullmetal Alchemist/Ivalice (Final Fantasy XII and Vagrant Storyish...prestory?...mostly)  
>  **Rating:** R
> 
>  **Summary:** In a world where advanced mechanics and firepower rub elbows with high magic and ancient relics, Zolf Kimberly has built the Crimson Flames to be the best mercenary company east of Archadia. Combining infantry with elemental black magic, the Flames are versatile, professional, highly effective, and willing to ground your enemy to dust, for the right price. This is the tale of the Crimson Flames and their devious Captain, whose tendency to gather what others throw away reaps him a larger reward than he ever expected.
> 
>  **Warnings:** R rating is for not-terribly-graphic-but-still-disturbing description of torture and for Kimberly's not-totally-all-right mindset. Also description/discussion of characters with various amputated limbs. I've made every effort to treat this subject with all due respect, but I do admit that certain characters might deal with their amputations in ways that are not terribly "normal"...mostly because they are not terribly normal people to begin with.
> 
>  **Disclaimers:** I do not own any of these characters, their canons, or their automail. I make no money off them and will put them back when I'm done with them. Honest.
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** The "Fission" chapter has been posted previously as a stand-alone fic called "Amputare". It is included here as an integral part of the narrative and character setup. I would like to thank my wonderful beta, Penny, and my unofficial beta, Rose, for all their cheerleading and support! Also my sincere thanks for all of those who commented on Amputare lo many moons ago and encouraged me to continue writing in that 'verse. All the art is absolutely FABULOUS and if you like it too, **_you should totally comment to the artist at her Deviantart page[over here.](http://darthneko.deviantart.com/art/Synergy-178588048)_**
> 
>  

  


  
**Prologue: Catalyst**   


 

"Captain."

Curtis's voice cut across the fog of Kimberly's exhaustion. He turned, not liking at all how he couldn't quite feel his feet touch the ground anymore. Curtis looked in much the same state as he: road dust from head to toe, with grim lines of fatigue and determination carved around her mouth and eyes. Her braids were coming loose, her hair sticking out in frizzy spikes. The blood splashing her tunic and one cheek, however, made her look fearsome instead of comical. She nodded toward the rear. "The Archadians have stopped."

Kimberly squinted back into the setting sun, catching the movement of the returning scout, the shape of the signal her arms were waving as she made her way up through the column.. "Indeed. Will wonders never cease."

Another minute and the scout was there, dropping from a dead run to a fast march beside them. She saluted, catching her breath before reporting. "Sir. Archadians have halted pursuit and bivouaced."

Welcome news, that they wouldn't be harried into the night, at least. "How far back?"

"About a mile, sir."

That they were still much too close was less welcome. Kimberly heard Curtis sigh next to him. "We'll push on until dark," Kimberly said. "Pass the word."

The scout--Kimberly was fairly sure her name was Martel--saluted again. "Yes, sir." She stopped and allowed them to pass, falling back into the column.

They picked up the pace. There was less grumbling about that than there might have been. Martel's information passed down the line as well as Kimberly's orders. No one would complain about stealing a bit of a march on the Archadians, especially in territory like this. The rolling farmland of Amestris was picturesque enough but offered precious little cover.

Kimberly pinned his hopes of a safe camp of their own on what was over the next hill and was not disappointed. The land dipped into a small valley sheltering a few farmsteads spread out on the valley floor. The north end of the valley, Kimberly noted with interest, was cloaked in trees that climbed up the far side and disappeared into the northern mountains.

They turned north, following the road to the last farmstead. Kimberly halted the company a hundred yards or so from the house. They had seen no one since topping the rise. It was possible that the civilians had already fled, but Kimberly had been impressed in the past few weeks with the farmers' determination to stay on their land, no matter what army menaced them. He wouldn't have been surprised if there was some resistance left, and it was best to determine that before getting too comfortable.

"Curtis, you're with me," Kimberly said. "Brosche, Ross, cover us. Everyone else, keep your eyes open." He looked over at Curtis. "Let's go see if anyone's home, shall we?"

They crossed the road as light spilled into the orange-gold of true sunset. The sign at the farmhouse gate read "Rockbell", the name arching over a wrench. Kimberly reached over the gate and undid the latch.

"I feel like a walking target," Curtis muttered as they started up the walk.

"No one's shot us yet," Kimberly pointed out mildly. "Besides, an unarmed man and woman...what could be more harmless?"

Curtis snorted.

The front door opened when they were halfway to the house. "That's far enough." The voice was female, the figure framed in the doorway bundled in overalls and a bandanna, a large wrench clenched in one hand like she knew how to use it.

They stopped. Kimberly bowed. "Ma'am. Is this your land?"

"Maybe. Who are you and what do you want?"

"I'm Captain Zolf Kimberly of the Crimson Flames. This is Major Izumi Curtis, my second in command, and those are my men loitering disreputably across the road."

The girl--Kimberly was fairly certain she was young enough to qualify, maybe 16 or so--may have tried to hide a flicker of a smile at his turn of phrase. Good.

"We would like to ask permission to camp for the night in one of the fields. We won't be any trouble, and we are leaving at first light."

The girl looked at him, arms and wrench crossed against her chest. "...that's it? Just camp."

Kimberly spread his hands. "And perhaps draw from your well, but yes."

She appeared to consider this, looking over his head at, he assumed, the rest of the company. "You're mercenaries, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Who do you fight for?"

Technically no one, after the disaster of the last week, but that wasn't what she wanted to know. Not to mention, as long as the Archadians were pursuing them (and Kimberly was not wagering that they'd seen the last of them), they might as well still be under contract. "We are out of Lea Monde, fighting for Amestris."

The girl looked back at him. He couldn't tell what she was looking for. Perhaps she was just waiting to see if he would transform into a Judge Magister. Finally she said, "None of the fields around here are ours." She pointed the wrench to the north. "These all belong to the Sillers, but they've already fled. I doubt they'd mind you using them."

Kimberly bowed. "Thank you, Miss...Rockbell?"

The girl gave a jerk of a nod, then turned back into the house, shutting the door behind her.

"Strange," Curtis said as they walked back to the others. "I'd bet the rest of the valley's fled. Why's she still here?"

None of the fields around here are _ours_ , she'd said. Using the plural might have been habit, but perhaps not. "She must have something she needs to do," Kimberly said.

"If she's smart, she'll need to get the hell out of here, same as us," Curtis murmured.

Kimberly hmmed thoughtfully. He gave the "make stealthy camp" signal, then picked out the scout that looked the most alert and sent him to reconnoiter as much of the northern woods as he could before full dark. The scout returned to the dark camp a bit later with the heartening news that the wood did indeed seem to back into the mountains and that it was honeycombed with paths and game trails. Obviously the locals were crossing the woods to go _somewhere_. Hopefully a somewhere with better cover than the rolling farmland they were currently marching through. Perhaps, Kimberly thought, just perhaps, they might actually escape. The thought was cheering.

When he'd finished his rations and drunk his fill from the newly-filled canteens, Kimberly gave a cursory wash and changed clothes in an effort to look and smell a bit less like a man who'd been carrying on a running battle for three straight days. Then he approached the Rockbell house again. The curtains were all closed, light spilling around the edges on the first floor. As he climbed the porch steps, Kimberly thought he heard multiple raised voices inside. This was less surprising than the reticent Miss Rockbell probably hoped.

The voices hushed at his knock, and there was a full minute of almost-silent movement inside before Miss Rockbell (and her wrench--Kimberly had to applaud her instinct to stay armed) cracked the door open. "Yes?"

Kimberly bowed again. "Miss Rockbell. I won't take much of your time. I merely wanted to warn you that you will not be safe here probably as soon as tomorrow. We are retreating from the front, as are all the Amestrian forces."

Rockbell closed her eyes, her fingers tightening on the wrench. "So we've lost, then."

Kimberly tilted his hands in uncertainty, his head in sympathy. "I only know what I've seen. The Archadians are mere hours' march behind us and likely to continue on tomorrow."

Rockbell bit her lip, eyes straying over his shoulder, to the now-dark west, where the front used to be.

"If you have an escape route," Kimberly continued, "I suggest you take it. In numbers, if there are others left to band together for protection."

"It's...it's not that simple," she said. She looked at him for a long moment, hesitating. She seemed to be a bright girl. She'd no doubt think of the same compromise he had. He would suggest it if he had to, but it was psychologically advantageous to be the one granting the favor rather than requesting it.

If it occurred to her, though, she was not ready to voice it. She switched from defense to attack, scowling slightly, one hand on her hip. "You seem suspiciously concerned for my welfare. Suspiciously _nice_ for a mercenary."

He spread his hands, putting on his best "I am just a harmless unarmed man" face. "Mercenaries are people, too. People who are just as likely as anyone else to care for a stranger's welfare. Perhaps you remind me of my sister."

She scowled properly at that. "The fact that you said 'perhaps' tells me that you're lying."

Kimberly chuckled. "Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you." And ah, how she tensed at that. Yes, Miss Rockbell did have secrets, didn't she? Interesting. Kimberly paused, just to see if she would betray herself, but she just looked at him, jaw set. "The woods to the north," he said finally.

She blinked, relaxing slightly. "What about them?"

Kimberly explained, and Rockbell told him that yes, there were dozens of trails in the woods. Yes, some of those trails led through the mountains to Lea Monde, and yes, one probably could move a few hundred men along them with moderate cover, though, she noted dryly, she'd never tried.

Rockbell paused, took a deep breath, and said, "The woods are old. There's lots of paths there. It's easy to get lost."

Kimberly was almost too tired to hide his smile. Three miles from an invading army, with something she desperately wanted to protect, and still the girl had the wits to try to manipulate him. He found himself hoping that this went well. He was beginning to like her. She had spirit. "Ah," was all he said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps a map?"

She pretended to think on that. "Maybe," she said, doubtfully. "It would be best to have a guide." He stayed silent for a long moment, and she was too impatient (or perhaps too desperate) a negotiator to outwait him. "I would be willing to guide you, but.... I have a few conditions."

Kimberly nodded. "Such as?"

She glanced over his shoulder again, opening the door wide enough to admit him, but no further, as if she might let in the dogs of war with him if she wasn't careful. "Maybe you'd better come in, then. So I can explain."

Kimberly nodded, and stepped inside. The autumn night was not yet cold, but the warmth of the house was welcome. Rockbell shut the door behind him and led him into a tidy kitchen. She set down her wrench, reluctantly. "Would you like some tea?"

A good sign. "Yes, please." He let his lips quirk in a smile. "We ran out a few weeks ago."

Rockbell's eyebrows raised in a sympathetic shrug. "This is the last of ours, but...there's not much reason to save it anymore, now is there?" She went about filling the kettle and putting it on to boil. As she assembled cups and sugar, she said, "It would not just be me who needs to escape." She turned, leaning back against the counter and nodding toward the closed doors leading to the rest of the house. She raised her voice, "Ed, Al, come on out."

One door opened, and two boys, both blond, both roughly Rockbell's age, came slowly into view. Both watched Kimberly warily, and something in the way they moved (carefully, with hands on doorjamb or wall for support) and their pale faces suggested injury or sickness.

"Captain Kimberly, this is Edward and Alphonse Elric. They're friends of mine. I'm Winry Rockbell, while we're doing introductions."  


Kimberly bowed slightly toward the boys, a gesture they returned with nods. "A pleasure."

"Ed lost his leg and Al his arm a few weeks ago in...an accident." The pained look on the boys' faces suggested that that was a gross understatement. "I fitted them as quickly as I could," Rockbell continued, "but I only finished Al's attachment a few days ago. He's still feverish, and Ed can't walk well yet, so running away by ourselves is impossible."

Kimberly furrowed his brow in confusion. He could see the shape of both of Alphonse's arms and Edward's legs under their clothes. It was possible that she meant that they had been healed, but white magic would not work on wounds that had set for weeks....

And then Alphonse shifted, his left hand coming up to brace him against the doorjamb. The fingers shone metallic in the kitchen light.

Kimberly remembered the wrench on the sign outside, and pieces started to fall into a new, much more exciting picture. "Is that...automail?"

"Yes," Rockbell said, surprise coloring her voice. "Oh. I forgot...it's not as common in Lea Monde, is it?"

A _much_ more exciting picture, indeed, if she didn't know how much of an understatement that was. Kimberly had heard of automail, of course. It was one of the lost Kildean technologies, half mechanical ingenuity and half magic. An articulated mechanical limb, attached to the recipient's body to replace a lost appendage, bound to the wearer's nerves and will by some truly ingenious Dark magic that University scholars were still trying to replicate. Evidently none of them had thought to comb the old Kildean lands to see if the technology had survived by oral tradition.

Kimberly chose his words carefully--polite of course, and impressed enough to excuse his interest but not so overwhelming that the girl would know how valuable she was. It wouldn't do to show one's hand, after all. "I've never seen it before in person." He looked from Rockbell to the Elrics. "I'm a mage, myself. Might I take a closer look? Out of professional curiosity."

After a complicated exchange of glances, all three nodded. Alphonse nodded to his arm and started rolling back his sleeve. "I can't move it well yet, but go ahead."

Kimberly nodded his thanks and kept his inspection short. Mechanically, the automail looked impressive. Though he was no expert, even the limited control Alphonse had over it showed that the joints moved smoothly, and the housing was heavy and substantial, with all vulnerabilities shielded. Magically, it was even moreso. The metal was etched with Dark runes that swirled and interlaced in complicated patterns. Kimberly traced them with his eyes, able to pick out the path the power took, the runes for flesh and metal and will.

It was a work of art. Incredibly useful art. Art that could make a loyal man fighting-worthy again. Kimberly's mind ticked through the casualty roster. Dorochet, Manning, Sligo...all with otherwise career-ending injuries....

When he looked up to thank Alphonse, the boy asked, "You're a battle mage, aren't you? We've never seen alchemical tattoos like yours before."

Both boys' eyes were on Kimberly's hands, where his arrays arced across his palms. He nodded, surprised that they could even identify them as alchemy. Xerxes' alchemical arts were even more "lost" than automail. He turned his palms so they could get a better look, and the boys leaned closer eagerly, which amused a smile out of Kimberly. It was not generally the reaction his tattoos got. The thought that the boys didn't know what they were evaporated when Edward said, "I recognize fire and transmutation, but this is...." His finger circled above the subject hemisphere of the array.

"Flesh," Alphonse prompted. "It's similar to some of the old white magic runes." He looked up at Kimberly. "Linked to a transformative fire array like that would be...really effective."

Kimberly smiled. Honestly, first an automail mechanic and then two boys who knew Xerian alchemy? He was beginning to think that his luck was turning. "It is. You seem quite familiar with alchemy."

"We're mages," Edward said. "We were going to join the army before...." He stopped, eyes sliding away.

"The accident," Alphonse finished.

Were they, now? Interesting. And, if this negotiation went the way Kimberly thought it might, possibly useful as well.

The boys peppered Kimberly with quiet questions about interactions, range, payload, and relative rates of exhaustion until Rockbell set the tea tray down on the table with a pointed thump. "All right, enough pestering the Captain, you two. The tea's ready."

The boys rolled their eyes but moved to the table. "Yeah, yeah," Edward muttered to Kimberly. "If you had some shiny automail she'd never seen, then we'd see who the pest was..."

The wrench hit the table next to the teapot. "What was that?" Rockbell asked sweetly.

"Nothing!"

"That's what I thought you said."

After the tea was poured and doctored with sugar and what looked to be the last of the milk, Kimberly wrapped his hands around the warm mug contentedly and waited. It didn't take long. Like most people, Rockbell was uncomfortable with silence. "So my terms are this: we'll guide you through the forest if you take us with you and leave us...somewhere safe, I guess." She gripped her cup, white-knuckled. "That way, you and your men escape and...and so do we. That's fair."

Kimberly tilted his head to the side. "Perhaps. If you assume that the Archadians will not pursue, which I do not. They have harried us for three days and will likely do so all the way back over the border. We are two hundred men...we leave a trail a blind man could follow, especially through woods. And when it comes to a fight, you three will need to be protected."

"We can--" Edward started, but was cut off by Rockbell's immediate, " _No._ You will not, in your condition, or I'll beat you to death myself."

Kimberly spread his hands. "So. We are not merely talking about a fair exchange, but also the hiring of bodyguard services. If you would ask my men to protect you, they should be compensated accordingly. Equivalent exchange, if you will. "

Edward and Rockbell's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "...what do you want?" Edward asked flatly.

Kimberly smiled reassuringly, "Nothing outrageous." He thought for a moment. "Perhaps we could come to a compromise. One that might benefit us both. Several of my men, Miss Rockbell, could make good use of your services. Two missing arms, a foot, and a leg, if I remember." Rockbell looked interested at that. Kimberly turned to the Elrics. "We also are looking to recruit new mages to fill our ranks. If you two stood to pass the Amestrian magecorps exams...?" Edward snorted derisively, and Alphonse nodded. "Well, then, you should be more than qualified for an entry rank."

"So...you're offering us jobs?" Rockbell asked.

"At significantly reduced pay, and assuming that Edward and Alphonse will be battle-ready by spring, but yes."

"Whoa, whoa, _how_ little pay are we talking about here?" Edward asked.

Kimberly thought for a moment. "Thirteen hundred silvers each, for one year." It was half what an entry rank mage usually earned, and an even smaller fraction of a specialist's wage, but well...this _was_ a negotiation. It was met with blank looks, anyway.

"And...that's how much in Amestrian coin?" Alphonse asked.

"Enough for room and board and incidentals for the year, with a bit left over." Kimberly sat back in his chair, sipping his tea. It also was a generous offer of a place to stay and job training in a new country where the three had no contacts and few prospects, but he didn't think he needed to point that out.

The Elrics shared a look, some silent communication passing between them but ending with shrugs and nods.

"And who will you fight for, next spring?" Rockbell asked Kimberly quietly, her eyes on her friends.

Bright girl, Kimberly thought. "We are mercenaries. We'll fight for whoever will pay. Right now we have no contract lined up for next season, but that is not unusual. Hiring usually happens late winter. I doubt Amestris will be hiring, but there is always someone pressing on Lea Monde's borders. Usually the Drachmans, but if Archadia pushes all the way to the border, we might be hired to discourage them."

Rockbell looked over at the Elrics. "And you're ok with that? Fighting for whoever pays you?"

Another silent look between the boys, and this time the nods were slower. Edward shrugged. "It's the same as in the army, fighting whoever you're told to."

"It's...it will be all right," Alphonse said to her, quietly. "It will give us a foothold in a new place, and...it's only for one year, right?"

Kimberly nodded. "After that year, you can do what you please." Though with a year to feed Rockbell patients and the Elrics knowledge, Kimberly hoped that that would mean them staying right where they were. Inertia, Kimberly had found, could be a very useful human trait.

"There you go," Edward said. He thumped the table restlessly. "Let's do it."

Alphonse nodded.

Rockbell still looked thoughtful. "I'm going to have to leave a lot of my tools here. They're too heavy to carry, but I'll need them to craft for anyone else." She lifted her chin, meeting Kimberly's eyes. "I'm useless to you without them."

Kimberly smiled. Yes, he definitely liked her. "And how much are we talking about?"

"...five million cenz or so."

Kimberly did the math. It was significant, but not ridiculous, and given that he was getting an automail mechanic and two mages for a song (and they all knew it, he was sure....) "Grants for outfitting new recruits is not uncommon," he said. "You'll all three need it, unless you've a treasure trove you're bringing with you. Let us say that Company funds will outfit you, to be repaid within two years should you leave the Company. Fair?"

Rockbell nodded. "Fair." A second later, a horrified look crept over her face. "Oh god. I've got to go pack the workshop."

Alphonse nudged his tea toward her helpfully.

\-------------

They left at dawn, the most good-natured of Kimberly's strong men carrying Elrics and several heavy knapsacks on their backs. At the treeline, all three of the teens turned back to look once more at the valley. Kimberly watched them all, curious to see if they would have second thoughts. Their expressions were more resigned than conflicted, though. Kimberly came up to them slowly, and caught the last of their quiet conversation.

"--what she'd think," Rockbell was saying.

"She'd understand," Alphonse replied, from Heinkel's back. He had argued that he could walk just fine, but he was still visibly feverish, and Rockbell had vetoed him with a wrench and a healer's absolute authority.

Edward scowled over Jelso's shoulder, though he'd been surly all morning, and Kimberly gathered it had more to do with needing to be carried than anything else. "She wouldn't want us to get captured by the damned Archadians that's for sure."

"I know. It's just...." Rockbell sighed, looking down at something in her hands. It looked like a pipe.

Kimberly was about to say something reassuring, but Law (whose unit had lost two limbs in the fighting and who had picked up two of the heaviest packs carrying Rockbell's equipment) beat him to it. He laid a hand on Rockbell's shoulder, rumbling voice low. "You're part of the Flames now. You have to bring your home with you."

Rockbell looked up at him, surprised, then thoughtful. She looked over at the Elrics, smiling slightly. "Right." She took a deep breath, wrapping her fingers around the pipe and putting it in her breast pocket. She nodded at Kimberly as he came up beside her. "Right. This way."

Kimberly made a mental note to make Dorochet one of Rockbell's first patients.

Rockbell turned, back straight and resolute as she led the Flames north.


	2. Isomer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mustang looked down and away, as if uncomfortable. "A bit of old news in the city, but with you being away you haven't heard about Archer, have you?"

**Isomer: Cis-Trans**

There was a saying in Archades: that a true Archadian could walk into a bar with nothing, ask five questions, and be on the path to riches and influence. As advice it was overblown, of course, but it illustrated what Kimberly considered a key to success: knowing who to talk to, what to ask them, and, most importantly, knowing which bars to frequent. In Kimberly's experience, when one wanted to ask tipsy militarymen about the latest idle gossip, the Blue Tabard on Goshawk Street in Lea Monde was always a fine place to start.

This particular time, he'd found his first familiar face walking up the street right outside the Tabard. Kimberly smiled to himself. Not his first choice, but useful enough. 

Mustang's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Kimberly, but he stopped, bowing politely, inquiring after Kimberly's health in tones that spoke volumes about how much he'd rather be anywhere else.

There had been only one thing to do: Kimberly offered to buy him a drink. 

Both of them were smart enough to not let mere mutual dislike interfere with an opportunity to exchange information.

\-------------

"...sounds like it was an impressive maneuver, I must admit." Mustang swirled his wine in its glass. "It's not every day that one catches the Archadians off-guard. But then, you always were a rather...ruthless tactician. Especially when your enemy is at a disadvantage." He raised a pointed eyebrow.

Kimberly chuckled. Mustang was so predictable. "Are you still sore about that? It was what...Field Tactics 12-A? That was years ago, Roy. A gentleman doesn't hold grudges."

Mustang hmphed. "Yes, well, it made quite an...impression on me."

An impression, to be sure. Mustang probably still had the scar to prove it.

Mustang gestured. "But you're not here merely to tell war stories, I'm sure. What can I bend your ear about? Have you just gotten back?"

Kimberly nodded, sitting back in his seat and stretching his legs. "We just arrived last evening, and I spent the morning haggling for...supplies. I haven't had any time to hear the latest word on the street. Are any of our classmates up to anything particularly interesting?"

"Hmm. Everyone's careers have been progressing apace, really. The usual promotions, myself included--"

"I saw the stars. Congratulations."

"Thank you. ...ah." Mustang looked down and away, as if uncomfortable. "A bit of old news in the city, but with you being away you haven't heard about Archer, have you?"

Kimberly shook his head, intrigued despite himself. Archer had always been a model cadet in the Collegium, probably even bathing by the rules of engagement. The idea of Archer being involved in a scandal was...well...scandalous.

Mustang took a sip of his wine. "Archer's been honorably discharged. He was injured in a fight with some Highroad bandits, up in Tassen province. Evidently they had a mage with them, and she blew herself and Archer's squad to smithereens. They were running reconnaisance, so it took awhile for the other squads to find them. Archer's wounds set, and, well. He was the only survivor, and he was lucky to be that, all considered."

Kimberly sighed, sitting back in his chair. His eyes flicked automatically to another table when a cadet put down his glass with a bang that was a bit too like a gun retort. "That's a shame. He was a model officer. Being an invalid will--." kill him, he thought, but changed his wording at the last minute "--not agree with him. His wounds must have been severe, if they wouldn't even keep a promising soldier like him on as a tactician or a teacher."

Mustang shrugged. "He lost his left arm and leg. It cuts down his mobility, even with a prosthetic, for a field tactician. As for teaching, well..." he glanced around inconspicuously, "just between you and I, I think that someone was pushing for his discharge, while Archer was still recovering and not up to his usual shine. I saw Hokuro in and out of Personnel quite a lot for about a week."

Hokuro. Kimberly had always admired the man's ruthlessness, though he was entirely too driven by arrogance and spite to make half the officer that he thought he was. His and Archer's seething loathing for each other had been the stuff of Lea Monde Military Collegium legend. However....

However. 

It would depend on the extent of Archer's injuries, of course, but.... Archer was a brilliant strategist and tactician. Not the most innovative, but well...that was Kimberly's specialty, wasn't it?

Mustang looked at him oddly. "What is it? I know that look."

Kimberly smiled. "Let's just say that I might owe you another drink. And possibly Hokuro as well."

\-------------

Kimberly spent the rest of the day doing research. Archer's family was old merchant stock. His older brother had inherited their father's import business, and his sister ran a semi-successful boutique on one of the more prominent boulevards. There were assorted uncles, aunts, and cousins but no wife or husband, Kimberly was glad to see. His offer would be much more appealing to a dedicated soldier than a family man with ties to Lea Monde.

Archer's location (staying with his sister in her house on a well-to-do street near the Cathedral) was easy to find. The extent of his injuries took a bit more work, especially since Kimberly didn't have easy access to the Collegium grounds anymore. He did, however have a few contacts in the medical sciences department from his University thesis days, and at least one of them still saw patients. 

Knox nodded, chewing his fish thoughtfully. "I wasn't his attending, but I stopped by. I'd had him for Combat Med Lab, few years after you. He was a good student. Also, to be honest, he was a rare case. That severe a trauma with no palliative magic until he was nearly dead...it was like something from the Archadian war all over again. I think every trauma specialist stopped by, trying to come up with an idea or two that'd save his limbs, or even his eye. Nothing to be done about it, though. The wounds'd set well and good. I heard tell that when the other unit came upon him, they weren't sure if they were wasting the Curas on a corpse or not." He gestured with his fork. "The wounds, the burns, the shock, blood loss...it was a bad mix. Unfortunately, no one could do anything except stabilize him."

"I hadn't heard about his eye," Kimberly said, cutting his own dinner. "Left side, I assume?"

The doctor nodded, glancing around. "This goes no further than us. Regulations, of course. And I'm only telling you this because I know you can keep your mouth shut, and I know you and Archer were...friends."

Kimberly had never been so glad that Hokuro had started THAT particular rumor. "Of course."

"The spell caught him all along his left side. Severe burns over his left arm and leg, moderate over parts of his torso. A lick of it caught the left side of his face, took out his eye. The limbs eventually had to be amputated to keep an infection from his heart, but there was deep muscle damage and he'd lost his left hand from the blast anyway." Knox shook his head. "Horrible injuries, really. Never seen anything like it, even during the war. Men usually died from such wounds."

"How was his state of mind?" Archer was a good soldier, but he'd be of no use if he was so traumatized he couldn't go near a battlefield.

"Surprisingly good. I don't think Frank was ever looking to win any beauty pageants anyway, and he certainly was no quitter. But then, the last time I saw him was before his discharge papers came down. I think he was expecting to get a desk job. Now...." Knox shrugged. "He always struck me as a soldier, through and through. Take him away from the military, and I can't say. I can't say." He squinted at Kimberly through his glasses. "Why the interest? You never struck me as the morbid curiousity type."

"I'd like to help him," Kimberly said, truthfully. "Merely wanted to know the situation before I stuck my nose in it."

The doctor's eyes narrowed. "...that mercenary company of yours looking for a strategist?"

Kimberly just smiled and shrugged.

Knox chuckled and shook his head. "You're going to make enemies, you know. Leaving the way you did was bad enough, but now recruiting around the Collegium like this...."

"I haven't set foot on Collegium property," Kimberly pointed out mildly. "If the military wants to throw away perfectly good officers because they can't be flexible in their command assignments or because some ambitious prick had an axe to grind, well. They can't blame anyone for coming along and picking them up."

Knox raised his hands in defense. "You don't have to convince me. I wish you good luck of it, and Archer, too." He sat back, setting down his fork and picking up his coffee. "I just hope you know what you're getting into. He's never going to be fully mobile again, unless you have a miracle up your sleeve. Have you been doing more biological magic research out in the field?"

Kimberly smiled. "Not quite."

Knox squinted at him again. "Now you're just being cryptic. And after I told you all kinds of things I shouldn't have, too. Shame on you."

It was true. The doctor was a good contact, worth being fair with. But at the same time, Kimberly wasn't quite ready to show his ace in the hole. "I...have an idea for something that might help Archer. I'm not certain it'll work. I've only seen it secondhand, and I don't want to give you possibly preliminary information. Rest assured, though. Should it work, you can pick my brain all you want."

Knox hmphed, but left it at that.

\-------------

That evening, Kimberly caught one of the street runners lingering in the square outside the Flying Phoenix Inn and had him take a message to Archer's sister's house. The messenger returned within an hour with the reply, penned in a precise military hand. The simply message stated that Archer would be happy to receive Kimberly's visit at 1400 the next day. 

Good, Kimberly thought, sitting back in his chair in the common room. The inn's beds were not the best, but they were heaven compared to a camp cot, and freed of any early-morning appointments, he intended to sleep in his until at least noon. 

\-------------

Archer's sister's house was a large one in a well-to-do neighborhood that Kimberly had never had reason to visit before. The streets were filled with nannies pushing carriages, impeccably-dressed ladies young and old out for afternoon constitutionals, and prim and proper servants bustling about on one errand or another. A mix of the aging and fallen genteel and the up and coming nouveau riche.

Quite different from the barracks or the type of spartan, utilitarian flat that Archer had favored in Collegium. Kimberly hoped that that would work to his advantage.

Kimberly knocked at the front door and was greeted a few moments later by a maid who greeted him by name and asked him to please follow her. The inside of the house...fit the neighborhood, Kimberly decided. Tastefully upscale, heavily decorated, and with the look of something that was to be admired rather than lived in.

The maid showed him to a parlor on the west side of the house, where the afternoon light was just beginning to slide through the high windows. "Captain Kimberly, sir," the girl announced softly.

"Thank you, Annalise," came the reply from a chair facing the window, with its back to the door. "Some tea, please."

"Yes, sir," Annalise said, before disappearing down the hall.

"Come in, Kimberly. You'll pardon me if I don't get up, I hope." Archer's tone was more wry than bitter, Kimberly was glad to hear. Either, he supposed, would have fit his purposes, but he found the former much more admirable than the latter.

As he spoke, Archer's chair swiveled, bringing him into view. He was dressed for company, his pants creased, his white button-down shirt spotless, his jacket of military cut but dark blue instead of red. Below the neck, the image was only belied by the flat emptiness in his left sleeve and pantleg. Above the neck, Archer's war service was even more apparent.

Though it was true that Archer had never been one to rely on such things, he had always been a handsome man, with a face of clean, classic lines and high cheekbones. The right half of his face was still just that, his remaining blue eye as sharp as ever. A black eyepatch over its match was the first thing that Kimberly noticed, followed quickly by, oddly enough, the thought that he'd never expected to see Archer growing out his hair. As he drew closer, Kimberly could see that it was likely to fill over the bald spots left by the burn scars. Being the expert on magical burns that he was, Kimberly had been expecting much worse, honestly. Though the scarring was extensive, the healers had poured enough magic into him that they were more well-healed than nature itself would have managed in the intervening time. Still, the healing process had left the left side of Archer's face below the eyepatch a shiny, abstract landscape of whorls and lumps, while the other side of his face had been left untouched. 

Kimberly did not react to this reveal with anything but a small smile. He had, after all, seen worse. "Certainly. Anything for an old friend." He bowed slightly, and Archer gestured him into the opposite chair.

"Ah yes, an old friend. I must say that I was surprised to hear from you. Last I heard you were harrying the Archadians in that little border country, Drachma...no, it was Amestris, wasn't it?"

"Indeed it was. And you are quite correct. Unfortunately, not even I could save the Amestrians from the incompetence of their own command."

"Yes, well, that part of the world has never really been known for its strategists, has it? I hope that the cost to your men wasn't too dear."

Kimberly shook his head. "Not at all. We were rather lucky in that the Archadians decided to pressure a different part of the line. My men were performing admirably and had almost accomplished our objective when we were given the order to retreat...." Kimberly sat back, waving a hand. "But I'm sure you're not interested in the details."

"On the contrary," Archer said. The right side of his mouth quirked wryly. "This is the most interesting conversation I've had in weeks. I'd heard that the terrain in that area was problematic. Did you find it so?"

Kimberly rolled his eyes. "Fields, all of it, flat as a board. Fine if you wanted to charge or fire volleys at each other all day, but it made real strategy difficult. Though there was an interesting maneuver one Amestrian general pulled off...."

Somewhere in the middle of his recounting of General Armstrong's masterful feint, the maid returned with the tea. Neither of them noticed until the teaset was drafted in as a visual aid, a line of sugarcubes tempted into an overconfident charge that led to them being swiftly surrounded and dispatched by the spoons and milkpot.

Finally, Archer sat back, smiling. "Impressive use of psychology. It's a shame that her side lost."

Kimberly tilted a hand. "Our unit was near hers when the retreat orders came down. You could hear her response clear across camp." He poured them both a cup, the maid having left them to their own devices when they had drafted the teapot. "I would not rest easy with her around, were I the Archadians."

Archer set his saucer on the small table at the side of his chair before lifting the cup itself. He raised an eyebrow. "You think that she might lead a revolt?"

Kimberly shrugged one shoulder, sipping. The tea was very good. "She struck me as a patriot, and a canny one at that. And the Archadians do have a history of allowing internal politics to divide their attention away from occupying conquered lands. Once Archadia gluts itself on Amestrian iron and her attention turns elsewhere, I think it only a matter of time, Armstrong or no."

"It will be interesting to see--ah, but this is all academic on my part, isn't it?" Archer sat back, his lips twisting slightly. 

"Mmm. I heard that there was some...interference on the matter of your discharge."

Archer's eye narrowed to something just short of quietly murderous. "Yes. Hakuro. I've no idea what he said, but someone was obviously willing to listen. I suspect I had another enemy in Personnel that I obviously wasn't watching closely enough. Beforehand, I mean. I wasn't up to watching anything at the time. Which was, I imagine, the critical factor." He looked away, his hand clenching on the chair arm and then, very deliberately, relaxing. "It was a rather embarrassing coup, all told. I always knew that it took very little to ruin a man, but I'd never thought to see quite so personal a demonstration."

That ruination, Kimberly knew, was less about lost limbs than about lost ability. Lost potential. Lost OPPORTUNITY. Archer's calculated ambition had always been impressive. Archer was an officer, to the core, always looking to make a name for himself, always looking to the next rung in the ladder. He had once told Kimberly matter-of-factly that he wished to rise all the way to Minister of War. When Kimberly had asked why not further, to King's Tactician, Archer had pulled a face and said, "I wish to be a leader, not a POLITICIAN." 

Recruiting such a man was a double-edged sword. He would fight as hard as two men, for he fought for himself as well as you. However, either he would end up trying to replace you, or he would leave, to pursue his own ambitions.

The trick to overriding peoples' own inherent self-interest, Kimberly had discovered, was to cultivate such loyalty that your victory became theirs. It required an initial outlay of effort, but it paid off handsomely in the end.

"I must admit," Kimberly said, "I did not come here merely to inquire after your health." He set his teacup down. "I came to offer you a job."

Archer's eyes betrayed nothing. Kimberly would have been disappointed otherwise. "I see. Patrolling to pick up the military's scraps for a song?"

Kimberly waved away the defensive volley. "Attempting to recruit one of the best tacticians I've ever known. The military was a pack of fools for throwing you away."

"And you think--" Archer started, then stopped, eyes closing as he visibly calmed himself. "I am not fieldworthy, Kimberly. I never will be again. Even with prosthetics that I could beggar myself paying for. Do not offer me what you do not have to give."

"Have you heard of automail?" Kimberly asked, quietly.

Archer stopped, mouth open in the middle of whatever he was about to say. "...yes. Magical limbs forged by the ancient Kildeans. The knack of making them is only now beginning to be uncovered by perhaps three people, and they are hellaciously expensive, if you can even get one of the Collegium researchers to attempt making them." 

Kimberly nodded. "I'm impressed at your knowledge."

"Yes, well, I've suddenly developed a keen interest in such things." Archer's tongue was certainly as sharp as ever. His eyes narrowed. "What are you getting at?"

"One of the things I picked up on my way back to Lea Monde was an automail mechanic. Amestris used to be a Kildean stronghold, and evidently when the art was lost here, it was still passed down there. She is young, but skilled. The two friends with her are testament to that: one replaced arm and one replaced leg between them. The attachment process is painful, and it takes awhile to synchronize properly with the bearer, but even in the month's march back to the capital, they have recovered and have full control over their limbs. They are well enough to spar in hand-to-hand as well as any recruit."

Kimberly leaned forward. "That's what I'm offering you, Frank. Not just a position, but replacement of your limbs."

Archer's expression was almost too complicated to read, hope warring with doubt and disbelief. "If I didn't know you, I would think you a liar." He tossed up his hand helplessly. "Though I don't know to what purpose. Fine, let us assume that your...mechanic is as skilled as you say, can provide what you promise. What do you want in return?"  
  
Ah, it was so refreshing to spar with someone who knew the terrain. "Payment, of course. A year's wages is not unreasonable, I'd think, given that, as you say, such services are unthinkably expensive. However, the cost can be prorated into your wages for, say...a four-year contract as the equivalent of a Gryphon-class tactician?"

"Which pays what, on the mercenary market these days?"

Kimberly named the figure, and Archer actually blinked. Kimberly chuckled. "You'll find that being a prideless mercenary pays considerably better than the army. Especially for a veteran front-line company like mine. We are more than mere cannon fodder, and our employers must pay accordingly." 

Archer bowed his head, thinking for long moments. Kimberly picked up his tea again.

"And this company of yours," Archer said, slowly. "Your men are competent? I will not herd fools again, for any number of restored limbs."

Kimberly raised an eyebrow at him. "I hand-pick my men myself. Need I say more?"

"No, I suppose that you do not," Archer said, and ah, there was the man that Kimberly had fought beside, returning to his eye. "And the work. I knew your command style in officer's school, but that was before you had access to so many mages. Or reasonably heavy infantry for that matter." He leaned back in his chair, lips curling in a speculative smile that Kimberly remembered from school. "Tell me then, Captain Kimberly, what kind of strategist are you looking for?"

Kimberly hid his smile in the motion of draining his cup. "Very well."

\-------------

That night in the Flying Phoenix, Kimberly found Rockbell and the Elrics at a table against the wall, listening to, if the illustrative arrangement of dinnerware and glasses was any indication, Curtis and Sigg recount some battle or another. Everyone looked up as he approached. "Sir," Curtis said, foregoing the salute to tilt a hand at an empty seat.

Kimberly shook his head, "I'm for bed. I just wanted to let the Elrics and Miss Rockbell know that I've a task for them tomorrow. Ten in the morning, we've an appointment with a new officer recruit, Frank Archer. Part of his pay will be your services, Miss Rockbell. I'd like you to examine him and tell me whether you can fit him for a new arm and leg."

Rockbell's eyes lit up in a highly entertaining and, if the Elrics' rolled eyes were any indication, expected manner. "Of course! I mean, yes, sir."

"Excellent. How goes your preparations? When would you estimate you'll be able to treat him?"

"Not...not right away, I'm afraid. I mean, I've been able to find everything that I expected to. All the general tools and such. There's a few specialized things that no one carries. I'll need to make them myself, but I can buy the materials and have them done....two weeks?" Her eyes were apologetic. 

"Your time is valuable," Kimberly pointed out. "Are these things that could be made to spec?"

Rockbell tilted her head, eyes narrowing in thought. "Yes. They're not that different, just of special sizes, certain theurgical amplitudes, things like that. And someone with a dedicated workshop would be able to do it faster than I could."

"In that case, Curtis, would you show her a few of the custom places tomorrow? K'sinthe should be able to make any magical equipment you'll need. Pereth or Sutter should cover you for most mechanical things. Company funds will pay whatever they ask for you to have what you need by the end of the week."

Curtis eyed him over her stein. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you, sir," Rockbell said, hands twisting around her mug. She bit her lip, which made her look exactly her age. "I know that this is all terribly expensive."

As if he was going to let upfront costs stand in the way of such valuable skills. "Your expertise will be more than worth it on the battlefield, Miss Rockbell. Just make sure you get exactly what you need." Kimberly smiled slightly. "I know the value of having the right tool for the job." 

\-------------

**Isomer: Enantiomer**

Frank Archer was not certain what he expected from Kimberly's automail mechanic. That she'd be young, of course. Kimberly had said as much. Archer had, however, at least expected her to be of university age. And also for her not to look so much of the stereotypical pretty girl. Not that Archer had anything against "pretty" or "girl", but it would have helped him take her a bit more seriously if she hadn't looked so much like his oldest and most air-headed niece. Though his nieces would never have been caught dead in the work-a-day shirt and breeches she wore, let alone the overalls, which was a stroke in her favor. 

"Winry Rockbell of Risembool" Kimberly introduced her as, and the two blond boys beside her as "Edward and Alphonse Elric of Risembool". "Ms. Rockbell has high expectations that she'll be able to fit you for automail. To help you decide if you want her services, however, the Elrics have graciously consented to vouch for the quality of her work."

The young woman and the two almost equally painfully young men beside her bowed and "sir"ed as smartly as any cadets, and Archer bowed politely to them all as much as he could from his seat. Young or not, Kimberly was no fool, and Archer was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt on Kimberly's say-so. If Rockbell was as good as Kimberly's word, then Archer didn't care if she was a babe in arms. He also admitted to being curious. The Elrics' clothes hid their limbs, but if they had automail limbs, Archer certainly hadn't been able to tell by their movements. "Welcome," he said to them. "I appreciate your time."

"I thought," Kimberly said, "that a demonstration would be best. The Elrics have been training under the eye of my best hand-to-hand fighter, and I'm sure they wouldn't mind showing off a bit. Perhaps a bit of a spar, if we can borrow some of your yard?"

The back yard would be completely visible from the neighboring yards, ridiculous wrought iron fences notwithstanding. That fussy old pacifist, Mrs. Haversham, would likely have a coronary over so much violence being done so near her tender sensibilities. Archer smiled. "That would be perfect."

Heading outsde was, of course, more of a production than it used to be. As he might have guessed, all things considered, none of Archer's guests seemed perturbed by the delay of having the wheeled chair brought and the slightly awkward procedure to get him ensconced in it. Kimberly smoothed over the transition (or perhaps simply made use of the downtime) by filling Archer in on a few of the more mundane details of the transfer to his new employment.

"-resupply is on schedule, and recruitment is not as difficult as I'd feared. We should be ready to move out to Stillwell by the beginning of next week."

"Stillwell...up north, isn't it?" Archer asked, as they were finally on their way.

"Yes. Small farming town, a day's travel northwest. They're quite happy to have us nearby, especially when the winter wolves come down off the mountain in the depth of winter. The monsters make good practice for the recruits. We provide a bit of protection and some extra coin flowing into the town's pockets, and so long as no one gets too rowdy, it's a rather tidy arrangement."

Archer nodded as Annalise negotiated him around the sharp turn into the back servants' hall that led to the kitchen's garden door. It was a tight fit but also the only access to the back yard that did not require some form of stairs. 

"Stillwell," Kimberly continued, "is usually too boring for an entire winter, the wolves excluded, but after this season, we'll need the recovery time. The timing is rather fortuitous for you, actually. You'll have whatever recovery time you need over the winter."

"Ah, yes. Speaking of recovery time, how long might I expect that to be, Ms. Rockbell?" Archer asked, turning slightly in his seat to look at her.

"It depends, honestly," Rockbell said, falling in just behind Annalise. "For a single limb, you'll have basic function in one to two months. That's just basic, mind you. Being able to stand, walk, pick things up and not drop them most of the time. Fine motor skills like writing take longer, of course...another one to two months. For the leg, it'll take another one to two months beyond the basics to allow you to do something like run an obstacle course or spar. You'll have a more complicated process, with two limbs. You'll have some lag time, since the automail will need to be attached one and then the other."

Archer raised an eyebrow back at her. "It can't be done simultaneously? That seems inefficient."

Past Rockbell's shoulder, Archer caught the Elrics' twin winces without fully understanding their import, but Rockbell's reply was firm. "No. Attachment is painful and...well...though the body eventually learns to adjust, at the beginning it knows that something is amiss. There's often fever, weakness...all the symptoms of a bad infection, really. It's dicey enough with one attachment. I refuse to try two. It's just too dangerous. Besides, the attachment spells need to settle into the surrounding flesh, to allow you full control...they might interfere with each other if more than one is trying to work at a time.... I don't want to chance it." She shrugged a bit, smiling apologetically. "Sorry."

Archer turned up one hand in a shrug. "I bow to your expertise. I've not gone through all of this to lose my life by being reckless."

Rockbell smiled. "If it's any consolation, I can only build one automail at a time, so that will be a lag in materials, too. You'll want to think on which you'd like to have done first...."

And that, Archer decided, as she elaborated, talking frankly about varying degrees of mobility and the relative benefits of having one limb before the other, said more about her experience than anything. That she understood not just the technological aspects, but also the practical issues at hand. Archer found himself cautiously reassured by her confident, knowledgeable tone. Found himself starting to believe that this girl could-- _would_ \--give him back his arm and leg.

The morning sun was starting its slide to the south as the chair's wheels finally grated onto the paving stones of the garden path. Sunlight slanted along a good portion of the yard, chasing off the autumn chill that had been creeping into the nights. Archer had Annalise wheel him over into the shade of the gazebo and sent her to bring chairs for Kimberly and Rockbell.

Once they were settled, Kimberly nodded to the Elrics, and they smiled, a bit nervously, as they discarded their jackets and moved out into the grass. Alphonse also had discarded the gloves that he wore. Their purpose was made clear as he moved into the sunlight and Archer saw the liquid sheen of metal all along his left arm, where it was bared by his sleeveless tunic. With jacket and gloves on, his automail had been completely unnoticeable.

The Elrics shared a quiet word and nod between them before facing their audience. Their first movements, of slow, precise stretches and held positions, were very familiar. Archer and every other Lea Monde military cadet had learned and performed them and their fellows for an hour every morning in basic training and beyond. The Elrics moved through the first sequence, slowly, then repeated it faster, and Archer watched with approval. For new recruits their form was passable, though his eyes were on their limbs more than anything. He watched Alphonse's automail hand, just as steady and responsive as his flesh one. His brother's legs, though still not visible, seemed identical in response time and control. After the second repetition of the first sequence, the brothers smiled and flowed right into loose-limbed fighters' stances. Edward threw a punch, Alphonse dodged, and from there it was easy to forget that the two had any handicap at all. Archer could only conclude that they actually had none. Blows were given, evaded, and taken with ease. Archer could have been watching a sparring match between any two young cadets. 

"They've had their automail for about four months, to give you an idea of the time involved," Rockbell said from beside him. "They recovered quite quickly, so they've had this level of control for about two months."

Archer watched Alphonse throw a kick wide with his automail arm, then wrap it back around to capture his brother's leg and twist him to the ground. Rockbell made a wincing, "geh" noise beside him, which Archer raised an eyebrow at. "How sturdy is the automail?" he asked.

She flushed and shook her hands in front of her. "Oh, it's sturdy! I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression. I'm just like a swordsmith, watching someone do something that might notch the blade. Automail's strong. It's metal, after all. But it's not indestructible, and it has its weak spots, just like real limbs." She shifted in her chair, head lowering self-effacingly. "And to be honest the automail I was trained to make in Risembool wasn't for fighters. It was for normal folks: farmers, townsfolk. I'm having to alter and augment Ed and Al's automail for combat as we go. It's a work in progress. I fix it, they break it, I fix it better.... I've been focussing on the joints lately, trying to reinforce them to withstand the torque when they...ergh...do things like that."

"That" was a fairly impressive wrestling maneuver that ended with Edward's automail twisted behind his back, pinning him to the ground while his brother sat atop him, grinning triumphantly. They stood, and Edward, apparently eager for a rematch, called over, "Another round, sir?"

Rockbell huffed something that might have been a half-fond " _boys_ ". 

Kimberly quirked an eyebrow at Archer. A smug eyebrow. Archer supposed that a bit of smugness was justified. Having a trained automail mechanic all but fall into his hands was a stroke of his notoriously good luck. Archer couldn't bring himself to complain, all told. He smiled slightly. "Not on my account. I'm convinced. Your work looks extremely impressive, Ms. Rockbell."

Rockbell beamed. "Would you like to take a close look? Ed, Al, come here."

The boys both rolled their eyes, but seemed more amused than offended to be used as demonstration pieces. Up close, Alphonse's sleeveless tunic gave an unobstructed view of his entire automail arm, and he knelt down next to Archer's chair, gamely demonstrating the mobility of the joints and then laying the limb palm-up on the arm for Rockbell to use as a visual aid. Archer laid a somewhat embarrassed hand on the metal of the forearm and was surprised at the warmth of it. Not as warm as flesh, but certainly warmer than the surrounding air. He wondered if the warmth was magical or merely siphoned from the rest of the body. Looking at his flesh hand over the metal, he asked Alphonse, "Is there sensation? Can you actually feel with it?"

Alphonse tilted his other hand back and forth. "I can feel pressure, but not temperature. No pain, either."

"I can see that being useful." Pressure would be enough to give fine control of gripping and the like. Pain was merely distracting.

"There are spells that can give full sensation," Rockbell offered. "They can be worked into the automail. It takes longer, but it's possible. Most of the time, though, pressure sensation is enough." Her mouth quirked. "And not feeling pain allows you to do some useful things that as your mechanic I'll highly suggest not trying except in extreme situations. For instance, one of the farmers in Risembool had an automail arm. His son got his coat caught in one of the harvesters. It was dragging Chase in, but Hannett used his automail to physically jam the machinery so Chase could free himself."

"Not to mention you can grab the choice bits right out of the cook fire," Edward said with a grin.

"Always useful to starving mercenaries," Kimberly said, voice amused.

Archer nodded his thanks to Alphonse, sitting back in his chair. "As I said, impressive. If you can give me as much...." He looked up, meeting Kimberly's eyes. Kimberly was hard to read at the best of times, but Archer was fairly certain he could see eagerness behind the polite smile. "...you have yourself a deal."

Kimberly's smile quirked just a touch higher. 

\-------------

**Isomer: Coordination**

As the Elrics collected their jackets again, Rockbell looked from Archer to Kimberly with poorly-concealed eagerness that Archer could not fault her for, everything considered. "If you'd like, sir, I could do the preliminary examination now. Well, today. It won't take very long, and then I'll have everything I need to get started. I can work on schematics and be ready to start once I'm set up in Stillwell...."

"Perfect." Kimberly tilted a look at Archer. "I assume you have no objections?"

"None at all," Archer said. "I put myself in your hands, Ms. Rockbell."

Quite literally, Archer discovered as they retraced their path back into the house and he asked if there was anything in particular that Rockbell needed. "I've brought my kit," she said, "so all I need is good light, really." She glanced at Annalise, who had returned to push Archer's chair, then at Kimberly and the Elrics, somewhat apologetically. "Well, and privacy. I'm going to have to examine the stumps."

Which would require him being practically naked. Archer wasn't sure why he hadn't thought of that. "...Ah. In that case...the back parlor would be the best place, if you will, Annalise." It was highly improper, especially since the back parlor had been refitted as a bedroom for him, all the other bedrooms being up one of several sets of stairs. However, he judged it no less improper than stripping naked in the front sitting room. He turned to Kimberly, "If you'll excuse me?"

Kimberly nodded, bowing slightly. "We'll wait in the front room."

"Excellent."

"This shouldn't take very long," Rockbell assured them. "A half-hour, three-quarters at the most."

"Don't steal _all_ the silver," Archer told Kimberly, as they parted, Archer and Winry turning left to head towards the back of the house, the others right.

"Only the best," Kimberly said, drawing himself up in mock-affront. "The Flames have standards, you know."

Annalise was too well-trained to make any comment, but Archer was rather sure that he could feel waves of disapproval breaking against the back of his neck, though whether it was due to their banter or to Archer heading to his bedroom to strip naked in front of a teenaged girl, he couldn't determine. 

The back parlor was, in Archer's opinion, only a small step up from his room at the military hospital, but Rockbell brightened when she saw the bed. Her reasoning became clear when she spoke. "Ah! It's nice that they could prepare a room for you down here. I saw those stairs and thought that they must be terribly inconvenient if you had to get up and down them." 

"Yes, my sister has been...very accomodating," Archer had to admit. As different as they were, he'd expected less, to be honest. 

Rockbell smiled--really, she had not _stopped_ smiling since they began talking of automail, and Archer wondered if that is a good or a bad sign in someone who was going to be grafting metal onto his body--and said, "It's always nice to have family to help out with injuries like this. It makes things so much easier than getting by alone." She stepped aside so that Annalise could pass, her hands wrapped around the handle of what looked rather like a doctor's instrument bag. She must have picked it up in the hall.

"...It does," Archer said. "Though I cannot complain. I am lucky to be alive at all." He looked gestured at the bed, "Would this be easier if I were...."

"On the bed? Yes, actually. It'd make it easier to see your leg, particularly." Rockbell sat down her bag on the chair next to the bed and opened it.

The door closed behind Annalise with a slightly disapproving _click_ that, now that he was close to leaving such ridiculous expectations behind, almost made Archer smile. He was not averse to rules, but he often found high society's culture to have arbitrary, _impractical_ rules. Raised in them as he might have been, he had left Lea Monde society behind for a reason, after all.

One thing that Archer had never fully appreciated was how _heavy_ an arm and leg could be. Now that he was missing one each of his own, and on the same side even, his main challenge when maneuvering on his own was adjusting to (and sometimes recreating) his new center of balance. However, getting up out of the chair and onto the bed was something he'd long ago mastered with a minimum of clumsiness by a combination of pushing with his leg and pulling with his arm. 

He appreciated that Rockbell, still rummaging in her bag with some fairly alarming clanking noises, left him to it. He was getting quite tired of it being assumed that he _needed_ helping for such simple things. A transient stab of anger flowed across his mind at the thought. Such episodes had become familiar over the past months, and Archer had made a bitter kind of game of analyzing and catagorizing them. This one, he decided, as he settled onto the mattress and reached for his buttons, settled firmly into the "how dare I let the world make me feel grateful for things that should be my due" category, under subheading "losing _that_ limb does not make _this_ one broken, thank you."

By the time Rockbell turned to him, Archer had his jacket off and was shrugging out of his shirt. Despite his internal mockery of Annalise's disapproval and his own budding reassurance at Rockbell's professionalism, it was still an uncomfortable moment. The burn scars were not as horrific as they could have been, given the amount of curative magics that had been poured into him, but they were extensive. Strangely ridged and slightly discolored, they flowed down his left side like water, like the fire that had caused them. He still woke, some nights, from dreams of that fire spilling from the dying mage's hands. His arm had been amputated at the shoulder, and though the stump was a neat bit of surgery, it still made him wince internally every time he caught a glimpse of it in the mirror, the absence all too jarring. 

However, whatever nebulous tension he'd been harboring over her reaction bled away entirely when Rockbell's smile didn't falter at all. Her eyes skated over the injuries with the calm assessment of a doctor. Her head tilted slightly, and she pulled an odd set of lenses from their resting place on top of her head down onto her nose. The frames were heavy, brass-colored, and, he could see as she drew close, engraved with precise arrays of lines in spiderwebbing patterns. As he watched, a soft blue haze of magic washed over the lenses, and what looked like formulae flowed slowly down in front of her eyes. "Ah, I see," she said, as she leaned down to get a closer look. "Magical fire, wasn't it?"

"Yes. A combat-level fire spell." Oh so very different from normal fire, especially when it began using your flesh as the fuel and--no. No.

"I imagined that it might be, with you being a soldier and all." Archer gave her another mental point for using the present tense. "But," she continued, pulling out a pad and jotting down figures, "it was possible that it could have been something natural...gas explosion, plasma burns, something like that."

"You sound satisfied. Does it make a difference?"

Rockbell tilted the hand with the pencil in it. "Yes and no. Every magic spell leaves a resonance behind. A residue. It fades, eventually, but depending on how powerful the spell and how it interacted with you--whether you were a target, of just caught in it, for example--it can hang around...um. I probably don't need to tell you this, do I?"

Archer shrugged. "I know the theory, yes."

Rockbell ducked her head a bit with a shamefaced smile. "I still haven't gotten used to Lea Monde. Magic just isn't as common in Amestris. Automail is one of the very few areas where magic was used for everyday things. Here, wards and spells are worked into every other building, and everyone seems to know as much or more than me." Her smile quirked up, impish again behind the magical lenses. "I'm becoming convinced that children learn magical theory here along with their letters."

"Well, not so soon as all _that_ ," Archer said. "And many, like me, don't have the talent. I never learned much beyond basic theory and a few parlor tricks."

"Well, that makes me feel better." She waved a hand. "Anyway, I check for resonance because I want to make sure that there's nothing pre-existing that might interfere with the attachment spells. For instance on you...well, here, you can see for yourself." She pulled off the lenses, holding them out to him.

Curious, Archer settled them in front of his eyes. His vision went violet-blue in a way that made his pupils strain. After a moment, he could make out the pale foxfire outline of doorway and walls: the passive palings that Rockbell had mentioned, laid on the stone and wood as the house had been built. As he focussed on them, pale yellow figures scrolled down along the right side of his vision. A few of the symbols he even recognized, from long-ago theory classes, and a few relating to protective and stabilizing magics had larger numbers beside them. Oriented, he looked down at himself. His own flesh and Rockbell's glowed ever so faintly, but he was dappled with red streaks in the same pattern as his scars, overlaid by a haze of green permeating the surrounding area. Both were faint, glowing shadows that moved with him as he breathed. The lenses helpfully broke the two signals apart, analyzing each in separate columns of numbers.

A glowing, finger-shaped shadow gestured at his side. "The red is the remnants of the fire spell, and the green is curative magic. They're both very faint. They'll probably be gone by the time we're ready to start the procedure, which is good."

Archer swallowed and took off the lenses. The traces of magic couldn't fade from him fast enough, as far as he was concerned. The almost instinctive repugnance he felt for it was ridiculous, given that more drastic reminders of the incident were no longer hanging from his left shoulder and thigh, but still...something about the way he still carried this one _in_ him, sunk into his skin like ink into paper.... He was grateful when the world returned to solid, bright colors. He took a breath, keeping his expression neutral. "I see. Otherwise the magic might interfere with the spells you will use?"

Rockbell nodded, taking the lenses back and settling them on the top of her head. "It's not usually an issue. The attachment spells are powerful and usually overwhelm anything residual. Curatives, though, can sometimes require a bit of finesse. Since they deal so directly with the body and its function, the same way the attachment spells do, they can interfere with the process, either the surgery to attach the port, or the interface with the nerves itself. But, like I said, it's not something we'll have to worry about, in your case." She pulled a measuring tape from her pocket and said, "I'm going to take a few measurements, if that's all right?" She grinned. "Just think of me as a tailor."

The joke almost distracted him from his reaction to the word "surgery". _Honestly, Frank, get a hold of yourself. Perhaps you thought that mechanical limbs attach themselves by suction?_ Rockbell's fingers were light, the touch of the measuring tape cool against his skin as she measured diameter and circumference. "Do you still have any pain?" she asked, jotting down a few numbers.

"No," he said, then proved himself a liar a moment later when Rockbell's fingers returned, this time pressing a bit at the edges of the remaining joint, eyes thoughtful. The jolt of pain was a stabbing bolt, strong enough to make him gasp.

Rockbell snatched her fingers away. "I'm sorry, are you--"

Archer breathed through another flash of pain, burning up nerves that surely were no longer there. "It's all right. It wasn't your fault. The pain isn't in the flesh. It is...well, it sounds ridiculous, but every now and then I feel a stabbing pain in...my fingers."

"Oh!" Rockbell, inexplicably, brightened. "In the lost hand?"

"...yes. I assumed that it was my imagination."

Rockbell waved a hand. "Oh, it's no more your imagination than any other pain. It's not uncommon with amputations. Some people feel pain, others feel itching or burning sensations.... I've known a few people who actually felt like the limb was still there: the weight of it, the sensation of the knee or elbow being bent. My grandmother always used to take such feelings as a good sign. She said that those who felt such phantom sensation often had an easier time of it during the attachment phase." She gestured vaguely with her pen, fingers scrunching in the air, searching. "As if the nerves were looking for the limb already and were eager to connect with the automail as a replacement."

"How curious," Archer said. "I mentioned them to the doctors at one point and they all but told me that it was all in my mind and that I needed to accept the loss of the limb for it to go away."

Rockbell snorted in an eloquent and very unladylike fashion as she straightened up. "As if you had much trouble, what with it not being _there_ anymore."

"My thoughts exactly."

She shook her head ruefully, then said brightly, "You can put your shirt back on, now. And take off your pants."

"...right." A tailor, Archer reminded himself, reaching for his shirt. Just a tailor. A very petite, perky tailor.

As he'd feared, the cut of his drawers and of his stump allowed for coverage of the pertinent areas but not for any particular level of modesty. Thankfully, Rockbell, kneeling by the side of the bed, seemed as willing as he to pretend that this was not as embarrassing a position as it was.

By way of distraction, Archer asked her about the surgery that she'd mentioned earlier. "I admit that I didn't take a good look at the Elrics' actual attachment sites. I assume the process involves...reopening the wounds?"

"Exactly," she said, glancing up at him through violet lenses. "I need access to the nerves, to connect the automail, and also to the physical internals of your arm: the flesh, bone, the joint socket. The attachment port interfaces with all of these, and connecting that interface is basically magically-assisted surgery. I won't lie to you: it's painful." She smiled up at him apologetically, and he chose to believe it was for the pain she was describing rather than for where her measuring tape was going. 

"I assumed that there would be some level of pain involved," he assured her. "I can handle it."

She made a "if you say so" face, her pen scratching out a few notations. "Once the port is installed, all that's left is to attach the automail and begin the synchronization process. That's the magic-heavy part. Automail looks mechanical, but it's just as much spell as metal. I can _make_ the actual automail without magic, but it's nothing but a great paperweight unless it can interface with your nervous system. The spells act as that interface: a bridge between your biological system and the mechanical system of the automail."

Archer shook his head. "That sounds...complicated."

"It is! The spells take about eight hours to cast!" Rockbell said cheerfully, as she stood and pushed her lenses up on top of her head again. "All right, I'm done. You can get dressed again." She busied herself with scratching out some more notes, while Archer got back into his pants. As he finished with his buttons, she made a noise of satisfaction and turned back. "So, arm or leg first?"

"Leg. Definitely," he said, as he stood and turned to get back into his chair. "I will not be able to get out of this thing fast enough."

Rockbell nodded. "Perfectly understandable." Her smile faded, her expression turning serious. "I do want to be clear, though. I wasn't kidding about the process being painful. The port attachment...you need to be awake during it, and I can only use light anesthesia, because I need you to be able to tell me how what I'm doing feels. Working with so many nerves is more an art than a science, and if the sensation doesn't start and end when expected, then I've done something wrong and need to know, so I can adjust. And when the synchronization spells take and the nerves connect, I'm told that it's rather incredibly painful, like a shot of lightning. And there's intermittent pain during the recovery period, as your nerves and the automail sort themselves out."

Archer closed his eyes, remembering the look of pity in a hundred eyes, the humiliation of failing and falling, in a hundred small ways, over and over. The anger, the helplessness, the long, agonizing future of utterly wasted opportunity.... 

He opened his eyes. "It will be worth it, Ms. Rockbell. There is a saying, in Lea Monde, that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

Rockbell's smile returned, and she plucked the lenses from the top of her head, folding them. "We have that saying in Amestris, too. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Archer."

She held out her hand, for him to shake. It was the right one, impossible for him to shake with his remaining hand, but he didn't hold it against her, instead taking it in his and approximating a bow over it. "As I look forward to working with you, Ms. Rockbell." For some inexplicable reason, that gesture, rather than poking about inches from his privates, made her blush slightly.

Archer glanced over at the clock. "We'd probably better get back, before Kimberly gets too bored." He looked over at the bell that would summon one of the servants and sighed. "I don't suppose that you would mind pushing me? It would save time, rather than waiting for someone to come." It was rather telling, he thought, that for the first time he didn't feel awkward asking.

"Oh, no, I don't mind at all." Rockbell finished packing away her things, snapping the bag shut and then holding it out to him. "If you'll carry this?"

It was some minor devil in him that made him say, "Anything for you, my lady," just to see if she would blush again. She did, though she hid it well, turning to open the door to the hallway.

As she released the brake on his chair and pushed, Rockbell asked, a smile in her voice, "You don't _actually_ expect the captain to steal the silver, do you?"

Archer's lips quirked. "Of course not. I don't, however, put it past him to start mildly terrorizing the servants to entertain himself."

"Ah."

* * *


	3. Fission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am grateful. You saved my life."
> 
> Kimberly tilted a hand dismissively. "Equivalent exchange, soldier. It is not every man who would put his life on the line for duty. Yet you were ordered to defend me, and defend me you did. I admire those who stay true to their duty." 
> 
> Basch flushed again, out of a different type of embarrassment this time. "I was only doing my job, sir."
> 
> "Exactly," Kimberly said, sounding oddly satisfied.

**Fission: Exothermic Reaction**

Basch didn't see the Archadian coming until it was nearly too late. 

The man had slipped in between two of the Captain's guard, who saw him but had their hands full dealing with the axeman's four friends. Basch was off to the side, and he blocked, slashed, cut, turned, and saw the Archadian slipping between two of the Flames. The man knew what he was about, spearing right towards the Captain while the Captain's attention was on casting one of his fearsome spells. 

Basch did not hesitate.

Three lunged steps on the blood-slick ground brought him barely in range, and he raised his sword to try to deflect the axe-strike.

He slipped, ankle twisting in the mud, his sword deflecting the blow closer to his own body in his attempt to keep it from the Captain's head.

So sharp was the blade, and such was the adrenaline rushing through his veins that Basch didn't even feel it when the axe took off his arm.

Then a long hand reached out, shoving the axeman to the side. The man screamed and disintegrated with a wet popping sound and a wash of meat-scented heat.

Basch found himself staring at the ground, wondering why his sword was lying in the mud. There was shouting somewhere about, but it sounded very far away and unimportant. A chill raced up his right arm, and he blinked back the shadows starting to crowd his vision.

The long hands were back, curving hot along the coldest part of his arm, right above the elbow. The murmured "Sorry about this" barely registered over the curiously loud rushing of blood. Basch looked up to catch a glimpse of Captain Kimberly's eyes, cold as chilled gold in the lightning-white whipcrack of his spell-light. And then Basch's arm was on fire, perhaps literally, and the pain hit him like a punch to the gut.

The shadows rolled over him, and Basch fell.

\---------------------

He awoke in the battlefield hospital with his head fuzzy with pain and the wool-stuffed feel of drugging herbs. Noah was there by the side of his cot, eyes tired and red. Basch didn't fully remember what was going on until he tried to push himself further up on the mattress with a hand that was no longer there.

Basch knew that he should be feeling something more. He suspected that it was the herbs and the shock that were keeping the feelings away as he awkwardly reassured Noah that everything would be fine, that he was alive and well. Noah nodded, gripping Basch's good hand. They had lost family too much to not rejoice at the gift of being alive.

\-----------------------

It was not until the healers took him off their herbal concoction, though, that Basch fully comprehended his situation. There would be no more fighting for him. He had lost his dominant hand and his sword arm from the elbow down. The healers shook their heads, hmphing over the burns that had cauterized the wound.

Noah's hand clenched. "The barbarian bastard, mutilating you like that. Had he not laid his devil's hands on you, your arm could have been restored."

"We do not know that," Basch said, feeling a headache growing behind his eyes. His brother's indignation had far outlasted his own. "The healers could not say."

"It is simple common sense! And I trust not these Lea Monde mercenaries, no matter what the high command says. They are all but Archadian themselves. I wouldn't put it past him to have done this _deliberately_ \--"

" _Noah,_ " Basch hissed, kicking at Noah's leg from the cot, for a familiar blue-cloaked figure walked down the rows of cots, unarmed and wolf-eyed.

Noah turned, eyes darkening at the Crimson Flames' captain's approach. He bit back what he was going to say with obvious effort, rising not in deference to the man's rank, but so he could pointedly turn his back and stalk away.

Captain Kimberly did not appear fazed, turning out of the way of Noah's shoulder as he passed. Glancing back at Basch, he asked, "Family?"

"My brother," Basch said, feeling acutely uncomfortable for several reasons, not the least of which was that he couldn't stand for a proper salute without the healers descending on him in a rage. He settled for a sitting one, left-handed, fist over heart. "Sir."

"A remarkable resemblance." Kimberly returned Basch's salute with the odd hand-to forehead gesture his company favored. His mouth quirked, softening his next words. "I hope that you do not share his suspicions."

Basch flushed. "You heard him."

"He was quite...emphatic. From across the room, even."

Basch had never, in their sixteen years of life, wanted so badly to murder his brother. "I apologize, sir. Noah is...upset by my injury. He means no disrespect--"

The captain raised a hand, chuckling. "Peace. I am not offended. His concern is understandable. I did, after all, finish the job of destroying your arm." 

Basch's right hand, ghostly though it was, twitched at those words. 

Kimberly's eyes met his. "I hope, though, that you understand why I did it."

Basch could see the battlefield behind his eyelids, bright as day. Yes, he knew why. He felt his ghost hand unclench, slowly. "I know we were rather far from any white mages. You couldn't drop your own defense to stop the bleeding, and even had you gone looking for a healer, I would probably have bled to death before you returned." He opened his eyes, hoping that they were as calm as Kimberly's. "I understand, sir. I am grateful. You saved my life."

Kimberly tilted a hand dismissively. "Equivalent exchange, soldier. It is not every man who would put his life on the line for duty. Yet you were ordered to defend me, and defend me you did. I admire those who stay true to their duty." 

Basch flushed again, out of a different type of embarrassment this time. "I was only doing my job, sir."

"Exactly," Kimberly said, sounding oddly satisfied.

\-----------------------

 **Fission: Free Energy**  
  
It might have ended there, if there hadn't been one of the Flames' mages recovering in the bed next to Basch's. His name was Alphonse, and he was practically the opposite of what Basch would have expected of a mercenary: friendly, inquisitive, and perhaps the nicest person that Basch had ever met. He'd struck up a cheerful conversation as soon as he realized that Basch was awake and aware, and the two of them had become fast friends.

"Is that your brother that comes to visit you?" 

Basch nodded. "My twin, Noah."

"Wow, twins. No wonder he looks so much like you." Alphonse chewed thoughtfully on the bread that came with their lunch. "I have a brother, too. I'll have to introduce you. I'm sure he'll come by soon." Alphonse leaned across the space between their cots, mock-conspiratorially. "He's a big motherhen. I think he blames himself for my leg, even though it wasn't his fault. We were fighting together, and he got pushed back into me, and I tripped over his leg, and we fell and were both out of magic, so it started to set wrong and...well...." He gestured down at his splinted leg with the remains of his roll.

Basch nodded, carefully spooning up his own soup left-handed. "I think...I think that Noah blames himself in something of the same way."

"Why? Was he there or something?"

"No." Basch looked down at his tray. "I think that that's the problem."

Alphonse sighed in understanding, shaking his head. "Brothers."

Basch chuckled, and they ate for several minutes in commisserating silence. "Still, I enjoy it when he comes. I am bored nearly to d--to tears here."

Alphonse nodded. "I know what you mean. My brother brings books every now and then, but I can't exactly practice in here." He grinned, wiggling his fingers at one of the more obnoxious of the healers.

Basch snickered. "I'd almost like to see that." He looked dubiously at the vegetables on his plate, trying to place exactly what plant they had come from. "Still...at least you've something to do, even if it is just reading."

"I could lend you a book or two? I go through them quickly. Er...they're all on magic, though. You don't strike me as much of a mage."

Basch smiled wryly. "Not even a bit."

Alphonse's eyes widened. "Nothing at all?"

Basch shook his head, and Alphonse mirrored the gesture. "Wow. That...that's just not common in Lea Monde. Magic is part of our blood. Nearly everyone can do _something_."

It sounded like total chaos, but Basch wasn't about to say so to Alphonse. "Well, Landis has white mages, of course, and the support mages that deal with palings and such. We just...it's not really a battle skill like you tend to use it." Basch shrugged a bit uncomfortably, wondering how to say it without giving offense. "Landissers pride themselves on independence, and mages...they are often vulnerable unless they have guardians. Even your captain...he came within a hand's breadth of death in that last battle, but for my sword between him and danger. Er...not to boast, of course, but that was the truth of it."

Alphonse shrugged one shoulder. "Well, that's true, but that's why you _protect_ the mages. And teach them how to fight a bit, so when the lines break down, they can take care of themselves." He looked down at his leg and shrugged again, grinning wryly. "Not that it always works, mind you." He waved his spoon at Basch. "But anyway. That's right. _You're_ the guy that saved the captain. Well, then, I am _definitely_ going to have to teach you _something_ , then. Maybe a cure spell?"

Basch blinked at him, then couldn't help laughing. "Fine, fine. You are welcome to try."

\-----------------------

Much to Basch's surprise, Alphonse did better than try. He was a rather good teacher, starting with the basics of magic: the Seven Laws and the technique of the mage's focus. Basch further surprised himself by being able to understand the former and being not all that bad at the latter. By the time that they were both discharged from the hospital a week later, Basch could cast the most rudimentary of healing spells.

This came in useful when there was mention of sending him home with the rest of the wounded.

It caught him unawares. He'd not thought of what would happen after the healers let him go. Perhaps he'd deliberately not thought of it, because it did, after all, make perfect sense. 

It also made a sharp knot of panic tighten in his gut. After all, where else, exactly, would he go? To his mother's house like an invalid child? To friends and family that would be all too willing to help the poor crippled fon Ronsenburg boy while his brother is off at war? To sitting and waiting, every day, for news of the front, for news of his brother, for news of Landis' fate and his own?

No. Gods, no. He might be clumsy here and slow at everyday tasks, but _that_...that would be true helplessness. And that he would not abide.

And so Basch approached the head healer, a harried, no-nonsense woman who looked him up and down and asked him bluntly what he could do. Basch flushed, stammered, and then admitted that his meager Cure was as much as he had learned. She demanded that he show her. He did. She asked how long it had taken him to learn that. He'd told her a week. Her eyebrows had risen into her gray hair, and she'd said he could stay, provided he spent some more time learning advanced white magic in his off hours and didn't get in the way.

It was not a perfect arrangement. Basch _was_ slow and clumsy, which earned him more than his share of annoyed looks from healers and soldiers alike, though he got better as the weeks went on. And though rolling bandages, administering potions and medicines, and whispering his one Cure spell over and over was not how he'd expected to serve this campaign, it was...better than the alternative. He was working, being useful, and if he felt as if more than his arm had been left bleeding on the battlefield, well...he tried not to think overmuch on it. 

One thing Basch had not expected, though, was the lack of support from his fellow soldiers. He was, officially, honorably discharged due to his injury. However, his decision to stay on the front bewildered some and made many others uncomfortable, for reasons that Basch both could and could not fathom. His...disfigurement was not common, as most such wounds led to either a quick death or a quicker healing. He drew eyes whenever he walked about town or camp without a cloak. Those who did not know him looked upon him with pity or embarrassment. Even old friends seemed not to know how to treat him. He was soldier, but not. Healer, but not. Basch...but not. 

It was even worse when Basch saw that pity and embarrassment in Noah's eyes, augmented by that misplaced guilt that Basch could not banish. Noah urged him to return home. Basch refused. They argued about it, on occasion, and the distance between them grew.

\-----------------------

Oddly enough, the one time that Basch actually felt he could relax was when he hiked to the Crimson Flames' camp outside of town. For some reason, his lost arm raised no eyebrows there, even...or perhaps particularly...from the Elric brothers.

"Basch? Are you all right?"

Basch realized that he'd been staring at the same page for at least a half an hour. He rubbed his eyes. "Yes, I'm well." He blew out a breath and glared at "Advanced Curative Magicks, Ed. 3". "Merely...frustrated."

Alphonse made a sympathetic noise, setting down the gauntlets he'd been enchanting. "Still giving you trouble? Don't worry, it'll come. You were making real progress on that Curaja last week."

Basch's mouth crooked. Alphonse was kind, but Basch thought that "managed it half-arsed a week ago and have been unable to do so again since" hardly qualified as "real progress". "I just don't understand it. I had no problem with the lower-level spells, but this...." He sighed, running his hand through his hair and nodding to Edward as he entered the tent. "It feels the same, yet not, and the difference is stymieing me, somehow. It feels like a wall I cannot climb."

"Maybe you just need a break?" Alphonse suggested. "You've been going at it all morning."

Edward's eyes flicked between them as he tore himself some bread off the loaf. "Maybe you should just try something _else_." He shrugged, as Basch turned to look at him. "Works for me: lightning giving me trouble, work with fire for awhile.... Try some black or green magic or something. Hell, if you want to learn black...." He gestured to himself with his bread before bolting it down and going back for more.

"Healing's not quite the same, brother," Alphonse said. "Black magic can disrupt your concentration sometimes."

Edward shrugged again, chewing. "Whatever. You know where to find me."

Edward had been on the front that day, or near it. Basch could tell by the ash-and-metal scent that clung to him. Basch swallowed hard against the way that scent squeezed his chest in something that was not fear. He felt his missing right hand clench. "I...I would like that. Thank you."

Edward grinned. "Save your thanks for later. I'm a terrible teacher. Just ask Al."

Alphonse made a face but didn't contradict him, and Edward grinned wider, and Basch chuckled, the tightness in his chest loosening just a tiny bit.

\-----------------------

**Fission: Transmutation**

Edward taught him Fire on a rainy afternoon, in a section of the Flames' camp carefully cleared for the mages' use.

The fire came at Basch's call like a friendly hound, or the lover that he'd never had. Control came slowly, but generating the sheer, destructive power that black magic demanded was surprisingly easy. Easy enough to raise Edward's eyebrows and earn Basch an impressed "...good!"

So very easy, in fact, that Basch found himself lying awake in the night, wondering exactly what he was doing with himself. He was a rather pathetic, crippled healer who was learning black magic in his spare time and was, on the whole, starting to feel more at home with the Lea Monde mercenaries than he did with his own countrymen. He enjoyed learning the magic, that was certain. It gave him something to do, and he was thankful that Edward was more than happy to teach him, but Basch couldn't help but feel that it was a false sense of utility. The Landisser warrior-mages were ancient history, and even had they been not...Basch still doubted that they would have encouraged one-armed men to join. 

Still, even though it might net him nothing in the end, Basch honed his skills. The Flames' mages grew used to him stationing himself in the far corner of the practice ground, and even came over to talk now and then: to introduce themselves, to satisfy their curiousity, or to give a suggestion. Basch got the feeling that he'd impressed them somehow.

Edward just shrugged when he asked about it. "We've gotten the impression that the Landissers don't like magic. They treat us like loaded guns." He eyed the smoldering tree stump they were using for Thunder (or, in Edward's case, Thundaga) target practice. "The Captain suggested that we do some teaching, right when the Landissers first hired us for the long term. You know, get a black magic unit trained up and licensed and ready to go." Edward's grin was sharp. "So they wouldn't spread _us_ so thin, of course." He shrugged. "But the Republic high command looked at him like he'd suggested sacrificing puppies and small children to the Dark. All right, try it again. No, no...without looking."

Basch grimaced, but obediently kept his eyes on Edward's face. "Slave driver. Are you sure that's wise? I would hate to hit anyone."

Edward rolled his eyes. "Basch, no one here's going to die from your Thunder spell, I promise. You've got to try it sometime. Thunder's a snap element. Either it goes, like _that_ " he snapped his fingers, "or it doesn't, whether you can see the target or not. Thinking about it doesn't help anything, just DO it!"

Basch blew out a breath and called the lightning.

Later, after Edward had left him to reduce the tree stump to an ashy smear on the ground, Basch blinked up out of his concentration to find the sun staining the horizon red and the Captain of the Flames leaning against a nearby tree, watching him. "Sir!" Basch checked his instinct just in time to prevent himself from trying to salute with half an arm.

Kimberly pushed away from the tree. "At ease. I didn't mean to interrupt your concentration."

"Not at all, sir. I was just about to stop." Basch swallowed, suddenly unsure. Something about the man's easy grace, his calm assurance, made Basch feel awkward. He was suddenly, irrationally grateful that the day's fall chill had allowed him to wear a cloak to mask his missing arm.

Kimberly regarded the smoldering tree stump's remains with what looked like approval. "I'd heard that the Elrics were teaching you magic, but I didn't know your studies had progressed so far so quickly."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." It occurred to Basch that maybe the Elrics' commander might frown upon them teaching a stranger...a _civilian stranger_...valuable magicks. "I...hope that I've not been a bother, sir. I've always tried to not distract anyone from their duties." 

Kimberly waved a hand negligently, that half-smile quirking his lips. "Relax, soldier. I'm not here to dress you down. I'm here to offer you a job."

Basch just stared for a moment. Then ran the Captain's words through his mind again. Surely he'd heard wrong. "...sir?"

"A three year contract, to be precise, with the Flames' magecorps infantry. It's our most valuable and versatile unit, skilled with both sword and spell. Your friend Edward's unit, in fact. High risk, of course, as the magecorps is best utilized on the front lines, but also at the top of the pay scale."

"...ah," was all that Basch could manage.

"You'd likely spend the first six months learning and pulling support duty." Kimberly gestured to the practice field, but Basch mind was so frozen that he couldn't look away from the Captain's face. "You've got natural talent, and you've done well with it on your own, but we can hone you to a finer edge than this. I would be interested to see what you can do with a paling casting, though I've a suspicion that you'll find your talents with green magic as limited as with white."

Basch's mind caught up to that, at least, his pride stung. "How do you kn--"

Kimberly's smile turned positively catlike. "Really, fon Ronsenburg, do I look like someone who would offer a man work without asking around first?"

"No...sir...but...."

"Yes?" 

"My _arm_ , sir." The words felt like hot lead in Basch's throat. Surely there was something he was missing. Kimberly was no fool, and odd as the man could be.... Surely he would not _taunt_ him with this. 

"Ah, yes, your arm." Kimberly made a sweeping gesture back towards camp, as the setting sun bathed the field in orange fire. "If you'll come with me, I believe you know someone who will be able to answer that question...and show you what a significant amount of three years' work will pay for."

\-----------------------

Basch found himself following Kimberly along a very familiar route.

Alphonse looked earnest, as he laid his bare left arm on the desk. The limb made a slight metallic clank as it settled. "It's...it's not that we were hiding it. It's just...the Landissers seemed so magic-shy, and automail's not conventional magic, but it's not really _not_ , either, so...." He looked at Basch's right side, then up at Basch's face. "And with your arm...well, we didn't want to be cruel."

"It's all right. I understand." Basch traced his fingers in the air over Alphonse's arm. The metal was so heavily inscribed that it made every bit of magicked equipment that Basch had ever seen look plain by comparison. "It...forgive me, but it _works_?"

"Oh, yes! Good as the original, really, and a bit stronger." Alphonse turned his arm palm up, wiggling the fingers. "You've seen me using it, after all." Indeed, Basch thought. Everything from cutting bread to mending his trousers. Basch thought himself a fool for never having noticed, though he did remember how odd it was that Alphonse had always worn long sleeves and gloves, even in the hottest weather. He'd merely thought the man thin-blooded. 

"Amazing. Why have I never seen something so useful? I assume that it is difficult to produce or somesuch? It..." Basch frowned at the runes, not recognizing any of them. "It isn't some Dark sorcery, is it?"

Edward snorted from the side, and Kimberly coughed from the other chair. "Automail is an old Kildean technology. It's only survived by word of mouth in Amestris."

Basch had heard of the Kildeans, and not in particularly flattering terms. "...so it _is_ Dark sorcery."

Kimberly turned a hand up in a shrug. "Many times removed, but yes, the automail's magicks are based on knowledge of the Dark. It is required to bind the metal to the will of the wielder. However, the effect is perfectly contained, and I assure you, there is no transfer of souls or bloody signatures required."

Alphonse's expression was so pained that Basch had to reassure him. He laid his hand on the metal of Alphonse's arm. It felt slightly warm, heavy and mundane, and not particularly evil. "It's all right. I am learning that many things regarding magic are not exactly as I was taught."

The chair creaked as Kimberly stood and nodded to Basch. "I will leave you to think on this, then. I will stop by later in the evening, should any other questions come to mind. Lacking that, you know where to find me, I trust?"

Basch nodded. "Thank you, sir."

After the Captain left, the tentflap falling closed behind him, Basch turned and was faced with two nearly identical grins. "He's trying to recruit you, isn't he?" Edward asked. "I swear, the man picks up people like lost chickabos."

Basch chuckled. His eyes were drawn to Alphonse's arm again, now bent to prop up his chin. "This is all so sudden. I...don't want to make the wrong decision."

Edward shrugged. "Seems pretty straightforward to me. You work with us, you get your arm back, get to fight again, get to learn more magic.... We're the best there is, really. The Captain went through the University like it was wet tissue paper. He's one of the best battle mages around, and he's not stingy about teaching, either. You could learn a lot."

Basch remembered the pillars of fire spilling from those tattooed hands, how a mere touch would send an enemy reeling, a living bomb sent to explode among his fellows. Basch had since tried to fathom what combination of magicks produced the effect and had failed. "I don't doubt it. All that you've mentioned is certainly a temptation, I just...." Basch sighed. "Landis is my home. The Crimson Flames fight now for Landis, but I doubt that that will last three years. To wield blade and fire for another...for whoever will pay.... I have to think on this."

Alphonse made a sympathetic noise. "It's understandable. For what it's worth, I've heard that we're probably going to be spending another year in Landis, but you're right. This war can't last forever, and when it's over, we'll move on." He smiled, sheepishly. "I have to admit, I kind of like the idea of you coming with us, though."

Basch smiled, just a bit worried that he was warming to the idea, too.

\-----------------------

True to his word, Kimberly returned later that night. They walked slowly towards the Landisser encampment, winding between rows of tents and around campfires. The camp murmured around them, a laugh here, a snatch of drunken song there, but mostly the sound of the mercenaries bedding down for the night. It was quiet, peaceful, and somehow intimate. 

The first question that tumbled from Basch's lips was, "Why, sir? Why me?"

Kimberly chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm in the firelit dark. "As I said before, I admire those who stay true to their duty, not just to their employers, but to themselves." He stopped, in the lane between tents, head tilted back to look up at the moon thoughtfully. "When I first saw you fight, I thought that you were in your element. You were, simply and perfectly, a soldier. One who follows orders. One who comes alive in battle. And you were good at it, even going so far as to risk your life to follow those orders, to test your blade against those who would defy you and your allies." He tilted his head to look at Basch, as if for confirmation.

Basch nodded, slowly. It was a bit more grandiose than he'd ever thought of himself, but it was true enough.

Kimberly turned to face Basch. "And when you lost your arm, lost the ability to wield a blade, still you stayed. You took up what tasks you could, even though they were strange to you and others derided you for it. And you found your way to black magic. Why?"

Basch wanted to look away, uncomfortable, but Kimberly genuinely seemed to want an answer. "Because...I wanted to feel useful, I suppose."

"Useful to whom? Your people see black magic as frivolous. Learning it would gain you nothing in their eyes."

Basch felt his right hand flex and itch. "...To myself, then."

"And it satisfied you? Gave you a sense of accomplishment, where nothing else would?"

"Yes...yes." Basch closed his eyes, ashamed though he knew not why. 

Kimberly's voice was low. Close. Close enough to lay a hand on Basch's shoulder, to squeeze. "Do you know why, Basch? Do you know why you knew, instinctively, how your time was best spent? Where your magical talents truly lay?"

Basch swallowed, unsure that he could form words past the tangle of emotions in his throat. 

Kimberly did not need a reply, this time. "You are a soldier. It is in your nature. And despite what your people have taught you, you recognized a worthy weapon when it was presented to you. Especially," fingers tapped Basch's right bicep lightly, "when you'd lost your own."

Basch breathed through the prickle of heat behind his eyelids. He felt as if his soul was laid bare...and yet it was a relief, also. When he looked up, Kimberly's eyes were barely visible in the banked firelight, keen and focussed, and for the first time ever, Basch felt like someone was looking at him. Not at Noah's brother, or Mathis' son, or a Landisser private, or a stranger, or a cripple, but at _him_. Looking at him and finding him good. Finding him _worthy_.

"Your instincts are a soldier's instincts. They will only get better with experience, and I want them at _my_ side. I want to see how far you might fly. And that is the only reason I need."

It was like the rush of magic, like steel girding Basch's bones, like fire through his veins.

Kimberly clapped him on the shoulder, drawing back. Somehow, the distance did not lessen the feeling. "And now, sleep. Think on this. I don't want to hear your answer for at least three days."

Basch nodded, swallowing. "Yes, sir."

\-----------------------

He didn't need three days to make up his mind.

He instead used those days to write and rewrite a letter to his mother, to tell his friends among the white mages and the Landisser ranks that he was leaving. To fight with Noah, who himself had just been promoted. They fought like brothers, homing in on each others' weaknesses with precision born of many years of practice. In the end, their last words were cold as they parted ways in a chill autumn dawn, Noah leaving for the northern front and Basch crossing for the last time over into the Flames' camp. 

As he walked the frost-rimed road, Basch found himself irrationally glad that they had fought. It was a tie severed. Perhaps bloodily and painfully, but still...they were apart now, separate, as they never had been before. They could no longer hold each other up, but at least they would no longer hold each other back.

Basch walked through the waking camp and was unsurprised to find a light burning in the command tent, brighter than the washed-out dawnlight.

Kimberly looked up from the maps in front of him, and smiled, "I thought I might see you today." He glanced pointedly at Basch's pack. "Need I even ask?"

"I doubt it, sir," Basch said.

"Good." Kimberly pointed to one of the small travel desks. "Have a seat over there. Make yourself well and comfortable. When Archer gets back, he's going to have a truly staggering amount of paperwork for you to fill out. And then...." The Captain looked at him as he had three nights before, gauging and weighing. It still warmed Basch's bones, though it no longer made him want to look away. "Then I believe it's time for you to go meet your automail mechanic."

Ed had told him that getting automail fitted the first time was excruciatingly painful. "Yes, sir. I'm looking forward to it," Basch said, and found that it was nothing but the truth.


	4. Fusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He smelled old human waste and fear. His left wrist pulsed with pain, sprained at the very least, and he had a collection of other, more minor pains, from the headache behind his closed eyes to what felt like a scraped knee.
> 
> Above and away from him, he heard the clang of metal on stone, harsh shouts, a low pleading babble that rose to a helpless wail that proceeded further away, until cut off by another clang. 
> 
> His dagger was gone from his hip. The familiar vise of a military Silence spell encased him, feeding off the barest beginnings of any spell, flaring focus-shattering pain through his nerves whenever he reached for his magic. 
> 
> This, he thought calmly, was not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squick warning for torture. Be warned. 
> 
> Also description/discussion of characters with various amputated limbs. I've made every effort to treat this subject with all due respect, but I do admit that certain characters might deal with their amputations in ways that are not terribly "normal"...mostly because they are not terribly normal people to begin with.

**Fusion: Confinement**

He woke from a muddy, confused sleep to pain and cold and hard stone under his cheek. The unfamiliarity was enough to shoot him from asleep to fully awake in seconds. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't move. He groped for his bearings, allowing his senses to report in.

He was lying on cold stone, rough but even enough to be floor. He was clothed, down to his boots, though cold enough that his cloak had obviously gone missing. He heard very little: the occasional call of male voices, muffled in stone. He smelled old human waste and fear. His left wrist pulsed with pain, sprained at the very least, and he had a collection of other, more minor pains, from the headache behind his closed eyes to what felt like a scraped knee.

Above and away from him, he heard the clang of metal on stone, harsh shouts, a low pleading babble that rose to a helpless wail that proceeded further away, until cut off by another clang. 

His dagger was gone from his hip. The familiar vise of a military Silence spell encased him, feeding off the barest beginnings of any spell, flaring focus-shattering pain through his nerves whenever he reached for his magic. 

This, he thought calmly, was not good.

Kimberly opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. He fought panic at the immediate thought of being blind, his eyes searching until they found the barest of hairline cracks of light outlining the door. 

Not blind, then. That was something, at least.

He pushed himself to a sitting position, reaching out with his good hand until he found the rough wall against his fingertips. He pulled himself upright mostly to be sure that he could. Muscles protested but not overly so as he paced out his cell. It was more a stone box than anything, featureless except for the drain that he could smell more than see in one corner. He could only take two full strides lengthwise and three depthwise from the door, and he could place his hand flat against the ceiling less than a foot above his head. Left in the dark, injured, alone, and unarmed in a small stone box. The Drachmans' brand of psychological warfare wasn't particularly subtle, but Kimberly supposed that it would be effective on most men, to one degree or another.

He settled his back against the wall to the side, away from the smell of the drain and where, hopefully, the light of the door opening wouldn't immediately blind him. There, he waited, thoughts ticking over memories and plans to flush the last of the Sleep spell away.

The battle had been going fairly well, or so he'd thought. They had pushed the Drachmans back from their original line with very few casualties, mostly due to the Flames' overwhelming firepower. This particular Drachman foray into the northern hills of Lea Monde had obviously been expecting to encounter the standard border troops they'd been harrying all summer, rather than the four units of trained, fully-supported battle mages that Lea Monde had finally gotten annoyed enough to commission. The Drachman line had collapsed slowly backwards under the onslaught of fire and lightning, to all appearances beginning to make an orderly retreat. The terrain was fairly broken, though, making their line ragged and threatening to break it up. Normally, Kimberly wouldn't have minded the opportunity to surround them, but the Drachmans tarried in their disorganization too long, and Archer had laughed. "They're attempting that Amestrian general's maneuver," he'd said.

"Lucky for us that we are smarter than Archadians," Kimberly had said, sending messengers flying with orders to surround the entire line and herd slowly north, rather than take the opportunity to charge so temptingly offered. "We're being paid to push them back over the border, not annihilate them. We don't work any harder than we have to." Nonetheless, good battle or not, he'd been a bit restless. He'd caught up one of the support units and swept along the Drachmans' right flank, shepherding them away from a particularly tempting escape into a tangle of canyons to the east. 

And that was where things had gone decidedly balls-up.

If there was one thing Kimberly had learned in ten years on the battlefield, he thinks in the dark, it is that the battlefield is a fickle thing. _People_ are fickle things, and a battlefield is nothing but a mass of people with all the structure of a bubbling pot, excited and terrified enough to be even less predictable than usual. Which was why he wasn't terribly surprised when the tide had turned and flowed faster than expected, pushing his unit into the canyons. Mostly he'd been thinking resignedly that Archer would give him a " _must_ you?" look and never let him hear the end of it. He had gotten concerned when the Drachman line solidified again--by chance or design, Kimberly couldn't decide which--pushing them further in. He could almost _feel_ the moment when the Drachmans realized what they had and set their sights on him. Unwilling to fight with unknown territory at his back, Kimberly had signaled retreat. His unit wasn't his preferred configuration, with Basch and the Elrics pounding the Drachmans further southwards, but they knew their job and were more than competent at it, raining down spells to slow their pursuers. 

Thinking back on it, Kimberly was fairly sure that his capture was more luck than intent on the Drachmans' part. He'd had plenty of turns in the canyons to choose from, fairly unhindered, and he could only conclude that it was his own bad luck that had led them into a dead end. A literal one, as his unit had been picked off one by one and then overwhelmed in a last rush of infantry. 

Kimberly had really begun to worry when he'd been the last man standing and they'd spent a few infantrymen's lives overpowering him, getting within arm's reach, wrenching his hands around (one hard enough to sprain his wrist), then hit him with a Sleep spell rather than a bullet.

He'd woken--or started to--once or twice, he was fairly certain. He remembered the distinctive, swaying jounce of a chocobo beneath him, and then the swift heavy darkness of Sleep descending on him again. 

And now, a cell. When the Drachmans didn't take prisoners. And...a _cell_. In a building obviously made for such things. This meant that he was over the border and in Drachman territory. Which meant that, according to Mercenary Guild Code, he was a dead man as far as his company was concerned. 

All of this added up to him having a very short, very uncomfortable rest of his life to look forward to. It was a pity, Kimberly thought. He'd wanted to finish a few more things before he died. Not to mention he'd have much rathered take a unit or two of the enemy with him, just on principle.

\-------------

He'd had to use the drain once and was beginning to feel the first pangs of hunger when there was movement outside, followed by the grinding clank of tumblers, and the door opening. Kimberly was positioned out of the immediate stab of light, but it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. In that moment, he felt the jagged ropes of Silence fall around him again. The Drachmans were nothing if not cautious.

"Captain Kimberly," a Drachman-accented voice said, "the General wishes to speak with you. You can come quietly, or we can paralyze and carry you. It is your choice. Either way, you are in Drachman territory. There is no escape." By the end of that sentence, Kimberly could see the two rifles that were aimed in at him. The woman behind the two riflemen was dressed in the red-piped jacket of the Drachman magecorps.

Well, well. That was certainly more polite than he was expecting, at least. "I'll come quietly," he said. There was no reason not to...yet. Better to see the lay of the land, first.

The short walk told him a lot. First, by the architecture and style of the doorways, that they were in a Drachman facility but not, he hazarded to guess, an actual prison. There were too few cells, and all the uniforms he saw were military, even the guards at their posts. A military base with a stockade, perhaps, but nothing more specialized. Which could be a help or a hindrance, he supposed. Second, that they were attempting to be reasonably careful with him, Silence spells or not. The mage and one of the riflemen kept two paces behind him, both of them covering him, while the first led the way.

Third, that they were only _attempting_ to be careful with him. However, they were not entirely succeeding. They were treating him as a captured mage: Silenced, but otherwise unfettered. After all, take away a mage's spells and you took away his most dangerous weapon. They did not blindfold him. They did not keep more than a few paces out of arm's reach. They expected the threat of being shot to keep him from any sort of physical attack. A reasonable assumption, Kimberly supposed.

However...however. 

They did not bind his hands. 

Kimberly had always been quietly secretive about the arrays inked on his palms. He didn't rely overmuch on them in battle and certainly didn't try to draw attention to them. When asked about them, he had on various occasions dissembled, deflected, and flat-out lied when warranted. They were, he'd said, merely a focus for the usual sorts of fire-based battle spells, an experiment in allowing more precise direction of magical energy. It was a believable enough cover for what they actually were: modified Kildean alchemical arrays, the red-headed stepchild of modern magick, universally panned for being more fussy, restrictive, cumbersome, and time-consuming than the more common vitality-based magick. Why, after all, limit yourself to what a carried or laboriously-drawn array could do for you when entire spellbooks of effects were but a focussed moment of thought away? 

Kimberly's favorite answer (and one he specifically avoided reminding anyone of) was because alchemical arrays drew their power from the components, rather than the caster. In the same day, when casting Thundaga over and over would leave a mage drained and exhausted, he could turn an entire regiment into living bombs and not break a sweat. 

His new favorite thing about the arrays, though, was that they did not require the release of internal energy that vital spells did. Silence had no effect on them.

His palms _itched_ with this knowledge, his fingers twitching once with the thought that unless they were very, very careful (and why would they be, when they had him all but disarmed?), he could get ahold of one of them and--. He stopped that thought, forcing control back into his fingers. The time would come, or it wouldn't, but _now_ , blind to the terrain, was not it.

His captors led him along a surprisingly simple path: through two locked doors, up a set of stairs, down a plain hall, and through another door into a room whose ornate decoration reeked of "high-ranking officer". Kimberly passed within a handsbreadth of the rifleman holding the door open. He let the moment pass, letting his eyes slide once over the room, taking in the desk, the man with a Drachman general's stars on his shoulders, the two aides with bodyguards' eyes behind the general, the ground-level window looking out at brown grass and distant mountains slightly behind _them_. The general, tall and broad and making almost two of Kimberly, stood as Kimberly walked in, smiling a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Captain Kimberly. Please, have a seat." He inclined a hand to a chair in front of his desk. His very large and heavy wooden desk, which unfortunately would probably take about twenty seconds to fully detonate.

Kimberly sat, ears focussed on the sound of boots in carpet behind him, trying to guage where his escort arrayed themselves in the room. A few steps behind him, perhaps back by the door. "You have the advantage of me, General....?"

"Ah, yes, very impolite of me. Vislev. Aran Vislev, Drachman 3rd Border Brigade."

The name was familiar. Vislev was in charge of a lot of the Drachman side of the border and, by extension, the border incursions. Part of the reason the Flames had been hired was because he made the Lea Monde border officers nervous. Vislev was evidently ambitious and not shy about sharing his opinion that the Lea Monde-Drachma border was overdue for a bit of shuffling. Kimberly just nodded politely as Vislev sat down and folded his hands on his blotter. 

"We are both soldiers, Captain, so I'll get right to the point. Drachma is very interested in Amestris' activities in the lost border provinces, and I suspect that you are privy to some of that information. I would very much like to discuss it with you. I realize that you are a man of business, so of course I'd be willing to make it worth your while."

The amount of euphemism in Vislev's words was amusing, from "lost border provinces" on down. Depending on who had control of them that decade, Lea Monde and Drachma took turns referring to the disputed area as "the lost border provinces". "I am a mere mercenary, General. I doubt that I have any information beyond your own intelligence."

Vislev sat back, fingers steepling against his stomach. "Come, Captain, don't be coy. You've been working the border since early spring, from Youswell to Lea Farin, and you are not a man who walks blindly."

Kimberly nodded in recognition of the compliment, if nothing else. "That aside, General, if you are looking to hire my services, I'm afraid that I've already taken on a contract with the Lea Monde Border Defense Forces."

Vislev waved one hand. "Surely you're willing to take another, in your own best interest."

Didn't he wish, Kimberly thought. "I'm afraid that's impossible, General. I am a mercenary. Who would hire me if they thought that I would turn around and sell their secrets to their enemy?" If it got out that he'd been captured, Lea Monde would already look at him askance, should he manage to escape. It would be all the worse if Drachma suddenly had knowledge of Lea Monde's deployments. "Contrary to popular opinion, loyalty is more important in mercenaries, not less." More's the pity.

Vislev looked at him for a long moment and then laughed, the sound rolling out of his chest like thunder. "Ah, Captain, your honor is admirable. It is a shame that you weren't born a Drachman." He almost looked genuinely regretful. "You are a reasonable man as well as honorable, though. You won't reconsider?"

"I can't. Besides...." Kimberly tapped his fingers together in a steeple. Lightly, to spare his wrist. "...it's all rather academic, isn't it, General?"

Vislev cocked his head, "How so?"

Kimberly let himself smile into those cold eyes. "We're both soldiers. We both know that you aren't letting me walk out of here, no matter what I decide."

Vislev sighed and shook his head, which was all the answer Kimberly had expected. "Very well, Captain. We will do this your way." He gestured over Kimberly's head, a "come" gesture. Kimberly heard the creak of leather, the creak of floorboard as his escort moved behind him.

Time slowed. This likely wouldn't work. Too many people in the room, too much he didn't know about their talents. Nevertheless....

Nevertheless.

Kimberly waited a beat, another footstep. "Yes. I suppose we will." 

He _moved_ , pivoting on one foot even as he rose, reaching even as he pivoted. By the time he cleared his chair, his head and body fully around, the rifleman who was moving forward to take him away was only starting to react, his eyes widening. Kimberly grabbed his wrist, and a heartbeat of focus was all it took to activate his arrays. Power flowed through them, around and between the talons of the Silence spell, into the Drachman's body, and he felt the bonds of the man's chemistry twisting even as he continued to pull, bodily tossing the man behind him, at the general's desk, using the momentum to propel himself forward, away from the desk, toward the mage, the next obvious target. She saw him coming, her eyes widening and her lips starting to move, but her body not following fast enough to evade him. He pressed his palms together again.

Another step, another heartbeat, and as the bomb screamed, as the explosion rocked the room, Kimberly ignored it, ignored the wash of heat against his back, just took another step and reached, hands evading the mage's own as they came up in useless defense, and she was moving now but too slow, it was easy to catch her, easy to catch one hand, press the other palm to her wrist and--

And then her lips stopped moving, spell complete, and Kimberly fell, thumping to the carpet like a puppet with its strings cut. The heavy weight of Disable snuffed out his strength, his focus, his will, hollowing him out and leaving him unable to do much more than breathe.

He'd fallen with his head turned toward the desk, or what remained of it. The bomb had apparently fallen on top of it, and from his angle on the floor, Kimberly could see how it had been blown down and apart, the surrounding floor and walls painted by the same bloody, ashy hand. Some of that had evidently come from one of the aides that had been standing at the general's back, as what was left of his body was slumped behind the ruins of the desk. The other aide was straightening, injured but alive, face and uniform torn and bloody, from where he'd also moved to shield the General. The General himself was just rising, looking alarmed but unharmed.

Kimberly would have smiled. Enemy or no, it was always good to see people who did their job well. 

Kimberly's ears were still ringing from the explosion in the confined room, but sound filtered in as the General gathered himself and strode over. He looked down at Kimberly thoughtfully, then flicked a hard look up at the mage that had so narrowly outcast her own death. "What did he do? How did he cast that through the Silence spell?"

"I don't know, sir." The mage's voice was, to her credit, steady. "It is still in effect, even now."

"Well." Vislev rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. "I suppose that's something else we'll have to ask you about, hmm, Captain?"

Kimberly watched through Disable's gray haze as more soldiers came in and carried him away.

\-------------

**Fusion: Crucible**

Unfortunately, the gray, uncaring haze didn't last. 

Kimberly's only satisfaction was that he was able to be a perfect example of why torture was a poor method of information-gathering, particularly with someone who knew they would be killed anyway. The only thing he could buy himself was a sooner death, and though it had a definite allure as they progressed beyond mere beatings to breaking bones, Kimberly refused to give them the satisfaction. 

A day passed.

The next day, Vislev's lackey asked him the same questions over and over about fortifications, troop deployments, border coverage. The mage arrived also, asking him about the spell he'd worked in Vislev's office. Kimberly gave the same responses as he had the day before, until he started lying, just to give himself something to focus on beyond the pain. They didn't believe him, of course, but he continued lying anyway. 

Torturers liked to justify their craft by saying that any man could be broken. Kimberly knew it to be true, for a given value of "broken". He was not invincible, and his own tolerance was not unlimited. He was willing to accept that he might be driven to a point where he'd tell them whatever they wanted. Whether they would get to that point before giving up on him was unknown, but he carried a hard, dark amusement in his chest at the thought that perhaps they would not recognize the truth if he finally offered it to them.

Another day passed, time broken and shattered by lack of sleep and the handful of times that Kimberly had passed out.

The third day merely hauling him out of his cell to take him to the interrogation room was agony. He passed out halfway there and woke strapped down to the familiar bloodstained table. The mage (her name was Silaren, rank Lieutenant Colonel, he'd learned from how the others had addressed her within earshot) was there, conferring with Vislev himself along the side of the room. She moved closer to the table, eyes at his sides where, he realized, they'd strapped his hands palm-up this time.

"It's these arrays, isn't it? They are the key." She turned to Vislev. "I thought I recognized them. The structure and the runes are Kildean. Ancient magick, long lost. Very limited, but it used an entirely...hmm, call it an entirely different power source than conventional magick. It would theoretically circumvent even our most powerful Silence spells."

"Hrm...." Vislev said, peering down. Kimberly couldn't imagine they could see much of the arrays, under the blood and dirt. "Interesting. Could it be replicated?"

"Possibly," Silaren said, walking around behind Kimberly's head to his other side. "It could be of use in very specific situations, like the one he used it in. It would require quite a bit of research to replicate. Arrays must be built precisely, and as far as I know, these are the most complete arrays available. Most of the ancient records are incomplete. Compiling such a complicated array must have been no small task." She looked down at Kimberly finally. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to share how you did it, Captain?"

Kimberly's voice felt shredded, his mouth dry as a desert, but he managed a painful and no doubt grotesque smile and a whispered, "No cheating. Figure it out yourself."

"Still the picture of uncooperation, Captain?" Vislev looked down at him. "You are rapidly wearing down your usefulness. Perhaps we should let you be useful in at least one way, hmm? The Lieutenant Colonel has expressed interest in your hands. You don't seem to be using them much at the moment. I think that we should give them to her."

The mere threat was another calculated torture, Kimberly knew. It was rather useless, though, as loss of limbs was only horrific if one assumed they'd live to see situations where they'd need them. And the magnitude of the threat was an indication of their frustration with him, of how much their patience was wearing thin. He took this, perversely, as a good sign. Perhaps they'd merely kill him soon.

Vislev gave him a long moment to mull the threat over, then shrugged. He spoke to the stone-faced man who did most of the smashing and cutting. "Cut off his hands. Don't let him bleed overmuch. I want to talk to him in the morning."

The machete was sharp. The cutting off of his right hand hurt less than Kimberly had expected, for some reason. The cauterization, however, was agonizing. He passed out, and counted himself lucky that they didn't wake him up when they took his left.

\-------------

He was awake when they came for him. All had been quiet for a long while, which made him guess that it was night. The pain was awesome, almost too large to be contained in his tiny cell. Kimberly was fairly sure he was delirious, which was why he didn't pay attention to the sounds at first: shuffling and hushed whispers. When he managed to crack his eyes open, he could see the shadows of feet outside breaking the line of light under his cell door. They lingered, longer than usual, metal clinking against metal, as if the guards were fumbling for the correct key. 

Kimberly closed his eyes when the door swung open, drenching him in light. He fancied that even that pressure made the pain worse, ebbing as a shadow was cast over him, as someone crouched by his head. 

"Captain? Captain...I'm going to hit you with Curaga. Try to stay quiet...." Kimberly blinked, not fully processing the words but recognizing the whisper, the tone, the silhouette framed against the light. 

Then green exploded behind Kimberly's eyes, and he lost his train of thought for a long, exquisite minute as every cut, every broken bone, every bruise and burn, and especially the stumps at the end of his wrists, itched and burned and mended itself in an almost-painful rush. His body shuddered in reaction, vertigo slamming into him even as he laid on the floor. He tried to hold onto it with hands that weren't there anymore.

Blue was next, the cool relief of Esuna washing away the worst of the confusion and delirium, springing the vise of Silence that had become the least of his pains. Kimberly breathed once, twice, reveling in being able to do so without the stab of broken ribs. He propped himself up on his elbows, feeling the fog of pain recede, leaving exhaustion and hunger and thirst but also the ability to _think_. "Elric," he said, or tried to. His throat felt like a desert.

"Yes, sir," Alphonse said, and Kimberly could see his eyes widen before the light of curative magick fully faded. "Sir...your _hands_...."

"Is he ok, Al?" That was Edward's voice, whispered from where he was standing watch at the door. 

"He's...."

"I'm fine," Kimberly grated out. "Water?"

"There's some just outside, sir. Can you walk?"

Kimberly pulled his feet under him, standing under his own power for the first time in what seemed like weeks. The world swayed, then steadied. "I think so. Report."

The light of the hallway was blinding and beautiful at the same time. 

It was not only Edward waiting for him out there, but Basch as well, and Kimberly wondered just how many of the Flames they'd brought on this little venture. Edward turned to him as he emerged, concern washed over seriousness, and his eyes widened at Kimberly's maiming, too. "Those fucking bastards!" he hissed under his breath. 

Basch paled, then flushed in anger, his automail hand clenching at his side.

Kimberly shook his head, nodding for Edward to lead the way down the hall, toward the guard room. Al stepped over the bodies of two dead guards and fetched water from a cooler against the wall, holding the cup so that Kimberly could drink, slower than he'd have liked. "Another," Kimberly said. If they had no time, they would have said so. "And _report_."

Basch was the first to speak, "We three, at your disposal, sir. We entered undetected. The stockade guards are neutralized, and at this hour there's only a few sentries about, and only about fifty total left in the base. We left our chocobos a few hundred yards away, hidden in the woods. Escape route is either over the wall again to the chocobos or we steal some from the stables."

Kimberly pulled back from the empty cup. He wanted more, but not if he was going to have to move. "How far are we from the border?"

"Just a few miles, sir. By Hasted chocobo, less than an hour back to camp."

So close. Excellent. "And the general and his retinue. The mage with him. Are they still on base?"

"No, sir. They left this afternoon, heading back to the front with their units." Basch shared a satisfied look with the Elrics that would probably bear further questioning later. "There was some sort of emergency."

Alphonse looked pained. "We're sorry, sir, that we couldn't get you out earlier. We arrived this morning, but there was an entire mage battalion decamped here. We had to wait until they left before we had any chance of--"

Kimberly held up a hand...or tried. They all looked at the stump, but he chuckled quietly and shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I know an excellent automail mechanic." He nodded as Basch pulled an extra night cloak out of his pack and draped it around Kimberly's shoulders, fastening it at his throat. "Besides, given the Code, you shouldn't have come for me at all."

Hands tightened on his shoulders. "We would never leave you behind, sir," Basch said.

"Never" "No way," the Elrics agreed.

Kimberly blinked, then shook his head. This.... This selfless kind of loyalty was something new. Or something they'd never had opportunity to display before. Or perhaps something he'd merely never noticed. It bore thinking on. Later. 

"What are your orders, sir?" Basch asked.

Kimberly straightened. The four of them were enough to level this place to the ground. However, it was wiser to be a bit more...circumspect. "We borrow some chocobos and head for the border." 

"Yes, sir."

Kimberly turned, looking back down the hall. The door to his cell was ajar, the darkness inside looking small and inconsequential now that he was on this side of it. For a moment, the temptation to raze the place to the ground, to carve a burning crest into this place and leave it smoking and lifeless in exchange for their treatment of him, was overwhelming, as was the temptation to find his hands and at the very least destroy them. But it would take too much time, and it sounded like the Flames as a group had already risked quite enough today. 

Still.

Kimberly nodded over to some scraps of paper on the duty desk, and told Alphonse what he wanted. Then he followed Edward up and out, a smile on his face.

Behind them, pinned to the desk with one of the dead guards' daggers, was a note with four words written on it:

"We do not forget."

\-------------

The Captain passed out just after they crossed the border. Basch felt the tension of wakefulness seep out of him, and it was only Basch's arms to either side of him that kept him from tumbling out of the stolen chocobo's saddle. Basch stifled a jolt of alarm and wrapped an arm more firmly around the Captain's limp form, calling to the brothers and pulling up on the reins one-handed. Edward, on point, twisted in his saddle and, scowl turning even more thunderous than it had been, led them off the not-a-trail that they had been following through the forest into an opening in the trees. 

Alphonse leapt off his own bird and helped Basch ease the Captain down, while Edward paced his bird about them like a mountain lion with cubs. After a cursory exam and a Scan spell, Alphonse said, "He'll be fine. He's just exhausted. Hungry and dehydrated, too. Nothing that can't be fixed when we get back to camp."

Above them, Edward scoffed, "Like his hands? I don't believe him, not being worried about that at _all_. They're his _hands_."  


"The Captain's a very practical man," Alphonse said, stretching back to his feet and pulling a canteen from the 'bo's pack. "It's...surprising, though, I'll grant you that. His frame of mind is better than I'd expect, even for him." He shrugged, handing the canteen to Basch. "He's also probably still in shock. He'll deal with it in his own time."

Basch finished drinking and offered the canteen to Edward, who just shook his head and kept pacing around the clearing. Basch could understand how he felt. He had been...trying not to think too hard about the Captain's hands, or the conditions they'd kept him in or...or anything else that might have happened. He had never thought of himself as a wrathful man, but this...this had crawled under his skin to itch and writhe, to make his hands clench and long for a sword and an enemy. 

To wound and kill a man in honorable battle was one thing. To take him alive and torture him was another. To _maim_ in such a horrifying fashion, to make such a cruel, calculated strike at the Captain's own prowess and livelihood was...something else entirely. Something that made Basch's blood boil and pound until his vision was stained black at the edges with a murderous haze of righteous wrath. 

He closed his eyes, concentrating on one deep breath, then another. All was well, he told himself. The Captain was safe, his hands could be replaced, all was well.... 

It calmed him until he opened his eyes and saw the Captain looking pale and haggard from three days of exhaustion and pain and-- 

Basch sighed, rubbing at his pounding temple. He stood, looking off to the south. "I wonder how the battle goes."

"I hope they're kicking the Drachmans' asses all the way back to Volkow," Edward muttered. His bird had picked up his tension, its claws raking the ground.

Alphonse's smile was grim enough to agree. "I'm sure it's going well. Well enough to draw that battalion away from the base, at the very least." He stretched, rocking his head from side to side. "The Commanders had it well in hand."

"Not well enough to keep you three from haring off, obviously. Could I have some of that water, Ronsenburg?" The Captain's voice around his feet made Basch startle and nearly drop the canteen in question.

"Of course, sir," Basch said, crouching back down. Watching the way the Captain had to awkwardly hold the canteen between his wrists made Basch have to blink away the black haze again.

The Captain sighed, offering back the empty canteen. "How long was I out?"

"Only a quarter hour or so, sir."

"One hopes that _that_ will stop shortly," the Captain muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

"It should, sir," Alphonse said, quietly. "You just need rest."

"I feel as if I've done nothing but lie around for far too long." The Captain looked over at Basch. "Shall we? I'm eager to see what trouble Archer and Curtis have managed to get into."

"Yes, sir." Basch tugged the chocobo away from the tuft of greens that it had been nibbling and climbed into the saddle. He grasped the Captain's wrist, helping him to mount. Kimberly huffed a sound of amusement as he settled and they all turned their birds back to the trail.

"It's an odd sensation," the Captain said, half-turning so that Basch could see his wry smile. "I keep attempting to grasp things."

His voice was light, amused. Not careless, precisely, but not _concerned_ , either. On the one hand, it was reassuring that the Captain was not distressed. On the other, it was disconcerting to see a man so unmoved by this terrible thing done to him. And on another entirely, it simply made Basch all the angrier, for some reason that he could not fully describe. There was something of justice to be had, and outrage at such an act was only fitting. If the Captain was unable to rouse it, then Basch would carry that beast in his stead. 

Still. This anger was unlike anything Basch had ever felt. The contrast between it and the Captain's own calm roiled inside him, a conflict that left him...unsettled, to say the least. Unsure of his own mind or heart. 

Basch had never imagined that he could harbor such anger so close to an overwhelming desire to defend...anything. Anyone.

As the chocobo's jouncing trot brought them within sight of camp, Basch concentrated on one breath, then another. Trying to breathe in some of the Captain's strength, to calm the black beast prowling in his blood. 

\-------------

**Fusion: Activation Energy**

Later, Kimberly wouldn't remember much of the next 24 hours, and what he did remember was in flashes muddied at the edges. He remembered never having been more glad to see the Flames' banners, and the strange, disconnected feeling of extreme exhaustion, where the body was awake up until the second it wasn't. He remembered dismounting in front of his tent, the last of his strength keeping him from collapsing right to the ground. He remembered Basch behind him, a subtle wall between Kimberly and the curious eyes that had marked their arrival. He remembered the cool darkness of his tent, and then even cooler water against his tongue. He remembered Archer appearing with Bido, the Flames' head healer, and the tingling crawl of a Scan spell over his skin. He was rather sure that he fell asleep again somewhere halfway through the examination.

He woke some indeterminate amount of time later, with darkness outside and the one lit lantern illuminating a tent almost unfamiliar in its normalcy. Basch was an added bit of unfamiliarity, sitting as he was against one of Kimberly's trunks, likely because the desk stool was portable but not exactly conducive to sleeping on (Kimberly knew this from first-hand experience.) Basch's eyes were closed, but at Kimberly's first movement he was instantly awake, like any good soldier. "Sir," he said, rubbing one eye.

Kimberly pushed himself to a sitting position, mostly to see if he could. He still felt shaky, muscles trembling with the demand, but he felt better, though still tired and hungry. "How long this time?" he asked.

"It's probably mid first-watch, sir. The healer said to let you sleep the night through and...have you eat whenever you woke." Basch pushed to his feet and brought a tray from the desk over to the bedside. Kimberly's stomach made piteous noises at the sight of the food. Even the idea of chewing through the usual hard camp fare (hard apples, hard bread, hard cheese, hard jerky) was appealing. 

...eating it, though, was going to provide its own problems. As were, Kimberly was sure, many other daily activities. He spared a moment to wish Vislev and Silaren many sleepless nights, wondering when Kimberly would come to take _their_ hands. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the backs of his wrists and reminded himself that this was a temporary inconvenience. "I see. Thank you. I know that this is not exactly part of your contract."

Basch stopped in the middle of attempting (somewhat unsuccessfully) to cut the jerky and looked up. His expression was more complicated than Kimberly could decypher, his voice quiet, and Kimberly did not think it only because of the late hour. "I volunteered, sir." He flushed at Kimberly's raised eyebrow, eyes turning down to his knife as he gave what sounded like a hurried defense, "I've experience in helping the wounded, I'm no unit leader, not needed on the battlefield, and...I wanted...I thought it might be easier, taking aid from someone who had experienced--" his lips quirked "--halfway the same injury, at least." He set down the knife, the food having been sufficiently dismantled into bite-sized bits. "If you have any objections, sir, I'm sure we can find someone else."

Kimberly shrugged. "I've no complaints, if you've none." He hadn't had as much time to personally devote to Basch as he would have liked, but the boy had shown every indication of living up to Kimberly's expectations. His talent with spell and steel were formidable and growing moreso with every month. His personality was, though a bit soft for a mercenary, friendly and team-oriented. His comrades thought much of him, and he had formed a particularly strong bond with the Elrics. 

And a bond with someone else, Kimberly thought as he accepted the first bite from Basch's expertly-wielded fork. Quite interesting. 

The Elrics, Basch...and possibly Archer and Curtis, given that his rescue party apparently hadn't had to go AWOL to accomplish their mission. Kimberly had to wonder what else he'd been missing.

\-------------

He had quite a bit of time in the next few days to observe. There was the expected blur of sleep and food and recovery, punctuated by healing magic and the mildly unpleasant process of learning his new limits. Said limits hemmed him in rather closely, which led to some unavoidable frustration. However, after a few days of awkwardness Kimberly and Basch slipped into a smoother routine as they settled on what Kimberly could do for himself and what Basch had to help him with.

It was a strange type of intimacy that Kimberly had never experienced before. He did not tend to seek out others' company, nor want to. He would have expected this enforced dependence to rankle even more than it did, but Basch took to his duties with a quiet competence that Kimberly appreciated from a man who was arm's length away at nearly every waking moment. Basch made a pleasant enough companion as well as a serviceable pair of hands. He was quiet and patient, yet still clever enough to hold a conversation with, and if he wished to be out on the battlefield rather than helping Kimberly dress and feed and relieve himself, he never once let on. Not that Kimberly would have blamed him, as _he_ certainly wished he was out on the battlefield rather than arguing with his seconds-in-command that a lack of hands did not make him unable to plan or strategize or _think_. They argued that he was still on the injured list and not cleared for duty. He bit back uncivil replies about them picking a fine time to actually _enforce_ that part of the Code.

Their response quite honestly baffled him, especially coming as it partly was from Archer, who Kimberly would have expected to understand about physical limitations not impairing anything else. But Archer seemed to be of the same mind as Curtis, that Kimberly's injuries required more recovery time, or perhaps that they had impaired his judgment in some way that yet more bed rest could fix. Whenever Kimberly attempted to pick up any of his duties (they were still in the middle of a campaign, after all), one or both of them would suggest he rest instead. As Kimberly was on the ragged edge of bored out of his skull after only three days of just that, this caused some...friction. Which he did his best to alleviate, though it was slow going as he didn't fully understand their objections in the first place.

It occurred to him that the two of them might be attempting to usurp command. Archer was certainly ambitious enough, though he did not have enough support in the ranks to take command himself. Curtis was the opposite: Kimberly had never thought her particularly ambitious, though she had earned more than enough of the men's respect to warrant it. 

The two of them did make up for each others' weaknesses. It was one of the reasons that Kimberly had assigned them as co-seconds to begin with. He'd never had cause to doubt their trustworthiness before, but he would have to give thought to it if this strange behavior continued beyond all reason.

It was after one of these frustrating encounters (during which Curtis made the practical observation that yes, Kimberly had _just_ been cleared off the injured list but that he'd likely be put right back on, as he was, no doubt, about to head to the mechanic's tent right that instant?) that Kimberly arrived at Winry Rockbell's tent, Basch in tow. He stopped outside to school his expression before entering. No sense in scowling at his automail mechanic, after all.

Rockbell beamed when she turned and saw him. "Captain!" She grabbed her goggles off of a peg and settled them on her forehead. "Bido sent word that he'd cleared you." Her lips quirked, eyes crinkling in amusement. "I was surprised I didn't see you five seconds later."

That was one thing he appreciated about Rockbell. She might be naive sometimes, but she was an insightful judge of character.

"Someone insisted that I eat," Kimberly said, looking pointedly to his right. "As he was more of an expert on this process than I...."

Rockbell's eyes slid over to Basch, who flushed and cleared his throat. "Well, he was right," Winry said. "This isn't an easy procedure. You should have all your strength." She plucked a flask off her bench and poured it into a cup. She handed it to Basch while talking to Kimberly. "This is the anesthetic. Like I mentioned, very light, but it'll help. We can get you settled while it takes effect, and..." She smiled. "...we can get started."

The brew was tea sweetened with enough honey to cut the lingering medicinal bitter that remained on his tongue long after Basch had pulled the cup away. Kimberly took a deep breath, forcing his frustration down and back. Temporary, he reminded himself. This was all temporary, and today was proof of it.

Well, perhaps not today, not tomorrow, but soon, this would be over and things could get back to normal.

But first, surgery.

Upon reflection, Kimberly could have guessed that there would have to be some kind of restraint involved. With no general anesthesia, Rockbell couldn't just rely upon her patient to stay still enough for her to work. It made sense, as did the wisdom of lying prone. Even if he had thought of it, he wouldn't have been worried by it. After all, the two situations were obviously different, and certainly the fact that he was fully aware of where he was and why he was there should have made all the difference.

It didn't. He froze as soon as his eyes settled on the operating table and its accompanying straps. The interrogation room flashed before him. The memory was startlingly clear and visceral, from the smell of wet stone and blood to the distorted tunnel-vision of swollen eyes and the itching ache of remembered pain. Kimberly wasn't aware that he remembered so much. 

The illusion (and he knew it was an illusion, knew it in his head, but his body evidently thought otherwise) hit him wholly unprepared, pouring adrenaline through him as effectively as any battle. It felt like soldier's instinct, like the thousand and one times Kimberly had stepped aside or loosed a spell or turned to look over his shoulder simply because of some subconscious certainty that an enemy was near. It was only by a thin thread of bewilderment at being suddenly, completely battle-ready when there was _nothing there_ that kept him from reaching reflexively for weapon or spell.

"Sir." And then Basch was there, in front of him, breaking Kimberly's line of sight to the table. His eyes were on Kimberly's, pointed and worried. "Sir. If you'll excuse us, Ms. Rockbell, we'll be right back."

Rockbell replied distractedly from somewhere behind Basch. "Hmm? Oh. All right?"

Kimberly couldn't even be annoyed at Basch's presumption. Retreat from the operating theater was easy as water flowing downhill, a giving in to the misfiring instinct, and Kimberly only stopped just inside the tent flap because he didn't want to deal with this episode in the open lanes of the camp.

He breathed. For a long moment, he just breathed, his breath falling into the three-in, three-out cadence of his earliest concentration training. Faintly, over the bustle of camp, he could hear, ever so faintly, the rumbling detonation of spells, the crack of guns, the roar of the battlefield muted by distance. Kimberly held to that, counting breaths to its familiar rhythm until his heart stopped racing.

Basch stood to his left, silent and--Kimberly saw when he could spare the look--concerned, which was probably the best Kimberly could hope for. He was mildly grateful that he'd not drawn Rockbell's attention, as her reaction probably would have been embarrassing. Kimberly drew another deep breath, breathing out a quiet, "Good catch."

Basch shrugged slightly. "It's not uncommon, sir, among the wounded. I was...actually, a bit concerned that you seemed to be dealing with it so well."

Kimberly just stared at him for a moment, then fought a laugh because he was not certain he'd be able to stop. "I...see. I am mere mortal after all, it seems."

Basch ducked his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I knew what her operating table looked like. I should have thought--"

Kimberly held up a hand (or tried to) to cut him off. "It's not your fault. If I'd thought on it I would have realized it myself. Even so, I doubt I would have given it a second thought. It's so irrational a response, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't experienced it."

"We...can come back another day, sir."

"No," Kimberly said, perhaps a bit more sharply than required. He was not going to _run_ from this. It was ridiculous, and he was not going to let it slow him. "No. I can't avoid Rockbell's operating table forever. I want my hands back." They clenched, illusory at his sides. "This...I am just going to have to deal with." 

Kimberly straightened a bit, his smile grim. The feeling, he realized, had been like a Fear spell. And he knew how to work around those. It was neither pleasant nor easy, but he would be damned if he would let mere baseless fear rule him. He turned, tilting his head back inside. "Again."

\-------------

That night, after the Captain retired, Basch headed to the command tent.

The Commanders were there, of course. Commander Curtis leaned back in her chair, a cup of something cradled in her hands. Commander Archer leaned over the map table, pointing with one automail finger to make some point. He looked up as Basch tapped and gestured him in. "Fon Ronsenburg. How is he?"

Basch drew a deep breath, reminding himself for the hundredth time that this was not _spying_ , even if that was what it felt like, sometimes. "He is well, sir. The port attachment was a success. Ms. Rockbell muttered quite a bit at the time that the resonance left in his arm from his array was reacting strangely with her castings, but in the end she seemed pleased."

Archer made a satisfied noise. Curtis spoke up. "How is _he_ , Basch?"

Basch picked through all the possible ways he could say the truth. "He was...a bit shaken, sir. He froze when he saw the operating table. Restraints and the table...I should have known. I saw the torture chamber they used." A slight creak of metal grating on metal, and Basch carefully unclenched his fist. "I...didn't probe too deeply, but I believe he was having a bit of a flashback, sir."

Curtis snorted. "I'll be damned, the man is flesh and bone."

Archer tilted his head, brow furrowing. "...and yet he continued with the procedure?"

"After a bit of a rest, sir, but yes." Basch couldn't help a small smile. He had no right to be _proud_ of the Captain, but couldn't help it, all the same. "He said that he would not run from it and walked right back in. The second time he...tensed some, but...I think he managed to distract himself. He talked with Rockbell as much as possible. He watched what she did as she...made the incisions and all the attachments. He asked questions, had her explain everything, as if he were learning a lesson. He even had me fetch a mirror so that he could see better what she was doing."

"He watched as she operated on his wrist?" Curtis's eyebrows threatened to disappear into her hair. 

"Yes, sir."

"I take it back," she muttered half-fondly into her cup. "He's the same bloodless bastard as ever."

Basch swallowed. "He...well, you know what the pain is like, sir--" Basch looked at Archer. "--but he dealt with it as anyone would. He felt it, but stayed lucid and helpful throughout. Afterwards, he seemed glad it was over. A bit tired, but otherwise fine."

The Commanders shared a look between them. Archer asked, "What is your opinion of his general state of mind?"

Basch shifted. "I am far from a professional, sir--"

Archer waved a hand. "Of course. But you have spent the most time with him, observed him the most." 

"You're also a good judge of character, Basch," Curtis said, her voice softer, more understanding. "We just want your opinion."

Basch looked down, mind working furiously. He knew what they were asking. Was the Captain still fit for command? He knew that the Captain was pushing to have it back. He knew the arguments that the Commanders (quite properly, Basch supposed) had used to delay him.

He knew the restlessness in the Captain's eyes, the hollow want in his voice, the way his eyes constantly turned towards the battlefield.

The Captain had given him more than anyone ever had. A new arm. A new profession. A new life. A _good_ life, though certainly not the one that Basch had envisioned when growing up in Landis. Basch could... _would_ , he realized, with startling clarity... spend the rest of his life repaying that debt. He wondered if the Commanders realized that. He wondered if they would have asked him such a question if they'd known.

Basch looked up into Commander Archer's eyes, his voice steady. He chose his words carefully. "I think that he is where any man would be, given his injuries, sir. He has the usual fears and setbacks, but he is facing and overcoming them. He is recovering at a good pace. A better pace than I would have expected, to be honest. He demands much of himself, but seems up to the task, sir." 

"I see." Another shared look between the Commanders, and Archer nodded to Basch. "Very well. Thank you, fon Ronsenburg. Dismissed."

"Sir." Basch saluted, turning and heading back out into the night, towards his tent. Then, when he was out of earshot, he cut back towards the command tent, steps silent. He wandered slowly around the back of the row, listening.

"--can't blame him for being shaken. The man's a week from being tortured," Curtis said.

"Exactly," Archer replied. "We can't expect him to be objective when fighting a campaign against that same enemy. Not this soon."

Curtis snorted. "This is _Kimberly_ we're talking about, Frank. The man who just watched his own surgery like it was an interesting anatomy lesson. Dispassionate analysis is what he _does_ , and nothing I've heard's convinced me he's so traumatized as to change that. Really, do you honestly think that he'll risk everything he's built here for some half-cocked revenge?"

There was a pause, during which Basch held his breath. Archer, he knew, was the key.

Finally, a soft chuckle. "No. I suppose not. When Kimberly takes revenge, it is meticulously planned and cold as the north wind. Not to mention very personal. He'll want to deal it himself."

"Well, there you have it. He's not going to get that this season." A _tak!_ , as of crockery being put down. "Look, if you're worried he's going to be irrational, then we can buffer him. But if we don't give the man something to do soon, he's going to go out of his mind from boredom, and I can't think of anything more dangerous than a bored Kimberly."

Archer made a wry noise of agreement. "Very well. I'm willing to be proven wrong. Hope to be, in this case. Actually relieving him of command would be...difficult."

Another snort. "That's one way to put it."

Basch listened for a bit longer, but the Commanders' conversation turned to logistics and the next day's deployments. When the sound of footsteps headed his way along the lane, Basch slipped away, smiling to himself in the dark. 

\-------------

Kimberly's sleep that night was, perhaps as might be expected, broken and riddled with nightmares of confinement and voices in the darkness that he couldn't quite hear. He woke, only moderately rested, slightly before dawn to the smell of coffee. Basch greeted him with a mug of the stuff and a curiously smug smile. "Commander Curtis sent word, sir. She said that staff meeting would run late today, so you should clear your schedule. The postscript said, 'That is, if you can remember where it is. Should I send a map?'"

Kimberly huffed a surprised laugh, accepted a long swallow of hot coffee from the proffered mug, and wondered what had changed their minds.

All eyes turned to him when he entered the meeting, the unit leaders murmuring amongst themselves, but the acknowledging "sir"s and nods were largely accompanied by smiles, the Elrics' being the largest. Curtis's smile held a trace of an Archer-like smirk, and Archer's own nod was as professional as ever.

Honestly, Kimberly thought, as he nodded to Archer to begin, people were incomprehensible. Not that he would complain. At this point, at any rate.

It was not a total return to duty, of course (his suggestion that he was still capable of casting and that surely he could find somewhere safe in the back ranks was met with a comical unison of disbelieving eyebrows and pointed silence). Still, getting caught up on a week's worth of troop movements and maneuvers at least occupied his mind while he waited for Rockbell's observation period to be over. It blunted his impatience...somewhat.

It was not that he doubted the wisdom of Rockbell's cautious pace (attach one port, two day wait to observe, attach accompanying hand, a month--"At least!" she'd said--wait, then start all over again.) Rockbell had pointed out the significant amount of alchemical resonance still left in Kimberly's arms from his missing arrays. She had given him her diagnostic goggles to make her point, and through them he was able to see more detail than with any mere Scan spell. A fascinating amount of detail, really. The electric-blue glow permeating skin and flesh was clustered most closely around his wrists but resolved itself more distinctly as it marched up his arms in abstractly patterned but precisely-ordered filaments like the walls of a maze. A few lines were more pronounced and persistent than their fellows, following Kimberly's veins in tiny, sweeping arcs up both his arms and beneath his sleeves. He didn't need to take off his shirt to know that they continued up and across, meeting somewhere in his chest. 

"I've never seen so much," Rockbell said, shaking her head. "And it's been a week, even!"

Kimberly pushed the goggles up off his eyes and held still so Basch could take them off. "I'm not surprised. A transmutation circle is the defining requirement of alchemy. The arrays on my hands were merely extrapolations. The real circle was--" He gestured up one arm, across his chest. 

"Wow." Rockbell sounded impressed. "Isn't that...kind of dangerous? I thought that the body couldn't handle that much magic."

"Oh, it can't." Kimberly smiled. "Not normal magic, at least. Evocative magic is too close to the life force to pass through without changing anything. Alchemy, however, is fundamentally different. More directed, more alien in some ways. It doesn't see the body as fuel at all, unless you design the array to use it." He stroked the edge of his stump against his left forearm, remembering the precise path worn by thousands of reactions in his flesh. Given that he'd been told that it would never work, he was slightly smug at seeing such evidence to the contrary.

Rockbell's lips pressed together, taking the goggles back from Basch and fiddling with the straps. "Hrm."

"You look worried," Kimberly said.

"I am. A bit." She gestured helplessly with the goggles in her hands then set them down on the measurements she'd taken of Kimberly's stumps. "Well, not worried, just concerned. I've never given automail to anyone with this much resonance left in them, so close to the attachment site. And something so exotic...I don't really have any idea how it will play with the attachment spells."

"You're concerned about interference." The idea had crossed Kimberly's mind, also. From what Rockbell had told him, the spells she used to meld his will to the automail would be Dark-heavy. Tempered to specific function in slaving the automail to his will, but still Dark...and the Dark could be notoriously hard to channel. He was impressed, really, that the Kildeans had managed to find the required constructs to coax it to such precise function in the first place.

Rockbell nodded, watching him anxiously. 

If she was afraid that Kimberly was going to want to call the operation off, she was sadly mistaken. "...not enough to delay the procedure, I hope?"

Rockbell thought about it for a long moment, eyes on his stumps, bottom lip between her teeth. "No," she finally said. "If you're willing, so am I. I just...want to be sure you know the risks."

Kimberly sincerely doubted that either of them actually knew the risks, though he didn't say so. How Kildean Dark magic would interact with Xerian-based runic alchemy was anyone's guess, but Kimberly doubted that any interference would be too severe. Sufficiently different magics tended to ignore each other, rather than interfere. Besides...though he'd given the risks due consideration, there was simply no other alternative. He nodded in the most reassuring manner he could muster, and Rockbell appeared to take it at face value. She brought out the simple automail hand she'd prepared for him, promising that she would of course upgrade it once he had two hands to work with. 

Kimberly's eyes followed the runes running over the hand's steel plating, a chaos of swirling, spidery runes that converged in tangled knots on the back of the hand before splaying out in lines and whorls that _almost_ formed a pattern, _almost_ made sense. It couldn't have been more different than alchemy if it had tried, but Kimberly found himself intrigued on a scholarly level entirely separate from that of a man who needed his hands back.

Those runes followed him into sleep that night, painted in red and ultraviolet on the insides of his eyelids, speaking to him in a tongue that sounded of flames and warmth and freedom. He woke with his palms aching. 

The next morning Rockbell met him with a determined look and her goggles pulled over her eyes like a knight's lowered helm. She gave Basch his orders as she settled Kimberly where she wanted him on the operating table. He concentrated on that rather than the feel of the restraints. "Keep a Scan up. At the beginning, in particular. If anything's going to go wrong, it'll probably happen when I start casting. I'll be pretty distracted, so you'll need to be an extra pair of eyes."

Basch nodded. "Of course. Anything I should be looking for in particular?"

"Wild power fluctuations. Damage. The process shouldn't harm, just hurt like hell." She lifted her goggles to make eye contact with Kimberly. "The same goes for you, Captain. Without the Scan spell. Good gods, absolutely do NOT cast anything, no matter what happens. But be alert. This should feel like the other day, only worse. If you feel anything else, any difference, any..." she waved a gloved hand helplessly "...anything, let me know immediately. No manly toughing it out, no assuming it will go away. _Immediately_."

Kimberly nodded, resting his head back. "Yes, ma'am."

Rockbell nodded and pulled her goggles back down, flexing her fingers in her gloves. "All right, then. Let's start."

\-------------

In his defense, he tried to follow orders. But when the Dark struck, it was much too quickly for him to open his mouth, let alone warn anyone.

One moment he was breathing through the sensation, separating and analyzing the stabbing spikes of pain from the slow burn of nerves adjusting to feel things they were never designed to. The next there was what felt like hot, curious fingers threading through the pain, tingling in his veins. Then it was as if they _reached_ , clawing up his arm. Later, he would assure himself that it was ridiculous to think in such terms. The Dark was not _alive_ , after all. But at the time the sensation was such that he felt himself held as easily as a newborn kitten by a force that wrapped greedy, powerful fingers around his heart.... 

His vision went black, and he teetered on the edge of consciousness for a long, long moment, seeing his dream in the pit below: darkness and voices, louder now but just as incomprehensible and reaching for him....

When he came to, it was to Rockbell cursing colorfully and Basch whispering the cantrip for Dispel over and over. The pain was gone, his flesh shuddering with adrenaline while his thoughts stumbled, sluggish and still half-drowned in that overwhelming darkness. Rockbell pulled back, and his automail hand went with her, once again separate and lifeless.

Kimberly drew a breath, and two pairs of eyes were immediately on him.

"--all right, sir?"

"--no _fucking_ idea, I've _never_ seen anything like that--"

"--seen anything shrug off that many Dispels--"

"--never would have even _tried_ it if I'd known it could even _do_ that and...oh gods, Captain, say something."

He felt as if he had to dredge the words up from a deep hole. "I'm fine." Another breath. "Calm down."

Rockbell took a deep breath, her shoulders slumping as she leaned on the operating table.

Kimberly turned to look at Basch. He was less rattled than Rockbell, but his eyes were still pinched, his stance tense, the glow of readied spells still in the process of fading from his hands. "Report," Kimberly rasped.

Evidently it had looked exactly how it had felt: a sudden attack as the Dark spells had begun to take. Kimberly closed his eyes, remembered the way the attack had felt, how it had reached up his arms, right for his heart, right along the path his alchemy took--no, used to take. He had a good idea what had happened, but when he opened his eyes to say so, the first thing he saw was Rockbell, still leaning on the table, eyes squeezed shut, shaking like a soldier after her first battle.

It took him an hour and most of a flask of liquor to calm her down. Another to convince her that it was his own special circumstances that had caused the misfire and that she had not been unknowingly endangering every person she'd ever fitted. It took another hour to get her to agree that maybe, maybe they could work on altering the prepared hand and his own energy alignments, so that it would be safe to try again. 

The sheer amount of soothing charisma it took to calm her fears was more exhausting than the lingering effects of the reaction.

Only when they were well away from Rockbell's tent did Basch say quietly, "Dissonance...was not the whole story, was it, sir?"

There were days, Kimberly thought tiredly, that he could wish that his men were a bit _less_ sharp. "What makes you say that?"

Basch was silent for a moment as they wended their way among the tents. Kimberly was heading back to his own, though there were certainly other things he could do with his unexpectedly copious free time that day. Still, he didn't quite trust the way the shadows moved in the corners of his vision, writhing and pulsing unpredictably. "The way her spell looked...the way it moved.... I've never seen anything like it. It wasn't like any of the usual analogies: water flowing or fire spreading. It hesitated, then probed, then _reached_ like a--"

"A hand. Yes, the Dark has been known emulate a rather vicious sense of humor."

"...sir?"

Kimberly didn't answer for a long moment, contemplating exactly how honest he wanted to be. Basch was close to Rockbell and the Elrics, and there were several aspects of the truth about the Dark that he had downplayed or carefully not mentioned when soothing Rockbell. Still. Kimberly would need his help in researching, which meant he would see the information anyway. _Very well,_ Kimberly thought. _Let it be a test, then._

"The Dark," he said, "is different than elemental magic. It does not act as pure energy, neither like an affinity such as fire magic or even holy magic. It is...well. Scholars have argued for centuries over what it is. The ancient tomes describe in minute detail how it can be invoked with specific cantrips to specific responses like a spell, as Rockbell uses it. Sometimes it can be ritually invoked and bargained with for more powerful or creative effects. Sometimes it responds favorably, others not. Sometimes it will devour the caster whole for even trying. It is described as having favorites and being notoriously fickle even with those favorites."

Basch's lips twisted wryly. "And yet I distinctly remember someone reassuring a wary Landisser that the Dark was nothing to fear."

"And so it is not. No more than fire or finely-honed steel or any other power that humans turn to their use. It is perfectly reliable within its own frame of reference." Kimberly shrugged. "The idea that the Dark is truly _sentient_ is highly suspect, in my opinion, but the Dark has enough internal rules to its use to allow something that looks rather _like_ contract magic. Rockbell views her craft with even less uncertainty than that: more as science than anything. To her, it looks very simple: cause and effect, inscribe these runes and intone these words, and the spell works the same every time. In reality, she is probably benefitting from a particular construct, an exploitation of some of the Dark's internal rules that was discovered by her ancestors. They found that in exchange for the correct conditions, the Dark would perform a specific function. It is not a spell: it is channeling some poorly-understood power through a loophole." Kimberly tapped Basch's own automail with his elbow. "You fell well within the bounds of that loophole, while I, obviously, did not, for some reason lost to time."

Basch made a thoughtful noise, then fell silent as they reached Kimberly's tent and ducked inside. Kimberly's eyes swam in the sudden dimness, but the shadows settled after a moment into the familiar outlines of trunks, table, cot. He stood in the middle of the room, trying to sort out his next steps. A moment later Basch offered a mug of water which Kimberly hadn't known he wanted. As he drank, Basch asked quietly, "The suggestions you made to Winry, sir. Think you that you can widen the loophole?"

Kimberly finished emptying the mug and shook his head. "No. The histories are filled with those who tried to 'cheat' the Dark and invited particularly vicious consequences. The best I can do is to determine what condition it is I do not meet and...meet it."

Basch nodded, holding up the pitcher in offer of more, then putting it down when Kimberly shook his head. "The alchemy, sir?"

"Most likely. I don't think that I'm particularly noteworthy in any other way...well, that the Dark would care about, anyway. I wouldn't think that Dark magic and alchemy would be so very incompatible, but then I admit that the Dark is not my strong suit." Kimberly contemplated his trunks. "I think that it is time to go back to school on the subject."

"Yes, sir." Basch said, shoulders and jaw setting in an admirable show of solidarity. "Where do we start?"

Kimberly couldn't help a slight smile at the "we". It was nice to see that this enforced proximity wasn't affecting only one of them. He gestured with his wrist. "Third down in the middle. There was an entire chapter in Thierry's _Systems_ on Dark magic that I confess to not studying terribly thoroughly at university." He sat down at his desk as Basch formulated a plan of attack against the stacked puzzle of boxes, mind combing back through what books he had here, what was still in his library in Stillwell, what might be begged or borrowed from acquaintances or the University.... "Let's see what I have missed."

\-------------

Basch had grown up on stories of the Dark. Landis was wary of the esoteric in general, but the Dark was viewed with particular suspicion and fear. It was common knowledge that the Dark was no better than consorting with demons. The Dark was sly and fickle, offering great power at the price of your soul...or, lacking that, whatever souls you could find to offer up. The Dark would drive those fool enough to seek it mad, steal their wills, and leave them mere ravenous puppets strung upon the Dark's will. The prime example of all this was, of course, Leontera, the Black King. Leontera had, upon coming under seige by his enemies, traded his soul to the Dark for the power to conquer his foes and so became the most feared leader in three generations. Landisser history stated that he had gone mad, tried to take over the world with an army of the undead, and had only been stopped when the gods themselves had struck him down for his hubris.

Of course, after a year's exposure to Lea Monde mercenary mages, Basch had come to the conclusion that most of Landis' "common knowledge" was _wrong_ for various reasons starting with xenophobic exaggeration and moving all the way down the line to historical revision (Lea Monde history, for example, hailed Leontera for repelling several invasions, uniting the warring Elder States into what would become present day Lea Monde, and writing several seminal treatises on black magic. It admitted that the King had been a favorite of the Dark but insisted that no more than one company of the undead had been involved and that the King had had a long and just reign before dying of a bad fall down the steps of his observatory tower.)

Still, the bits of Dark lore he'd picked up over the course of his (admittedly eclectic) schooling under the Elrics' and the Captain's tutelage was nothing compared to the crash-course in Dark magic that Basch found himself immersed in over the next two weeks. Much the same could be said for his continuing education in the Captain of the Crimson Flames.

First and foremost he learned that he'd only _thought_ he'd seen the Captain's single-mindedness before.

He learned that the Captain could thrive on three or four hours sleep for days at a time, and that Basch himself could do the same, when lost in chasing the casting of a particularly elusive spell.

He learned that the Flames, being almost a third black mages, had an impressive array of tomes and spellbooks on a dizzying array of subjects tucked away in trunks and footlockers, hidden under mattresses, and sitting at hand and well-thumbed by bedsides. He learned that barter was the traditional key to gaining access to such personal libraries, and that hard-to-find-components, offers of assistance, and like access to desired texts could open many spelled locks. He learned that even the most battle-hardened veteran could be willing to give a lot not to have to spend two days re-enchanting his equipment.

Basch learned that most of the Flames were more than willing to allow the Captain access to whatever he might need, though the Captain disliked (or, Basch was beginning to suspect, mistrusted) such generosity enough to insist on repayment.

He learned, from the small mountain of research material the Captain managed to amass, that precious little was written about Dark magic. It had fallen out of fashion some fifty years ago in favor of the less temperamental and more tractable elemental magics. It was mentioned in magical history books as a gateway to the modern understanding of many different schools of magic, but was treated as somewhat old-fashioned and temperamental as a wet cat besides. The only book that discussed it in detail was a battered--and, in places, nearly illegible with time and a particularly convoluted font--copy of something called _Darke Magicks_ that seemed enamored of the very theory of a sentient Dark that the Captain had panned.

Basch learned, to his vague horror, that the Black King was better at explaining the nuances of the Dark's intersections with black magic than any other Basch had read, though he had an unfortunate fondness for paragraph-long sentences. 

Even less was written about Kildean alchemy. No modern book granted it more than a cursory mention, and several referred to it as a "lost art". The only books that held any information on it beyond that were the Captain's personal spellbooks on the subject: more sketchbooks than text, they were obvious compendiums of every scrap of information the Captain had found. The text as well as the precise diagrams and notes to the side were all in the Captain's neat hand. Basch found them fascinating, but he read them purely for his own edification: the Captain knew their contents by heart, after all, and had found no easy answers there.

More promising were some passages in _Darke Magics_ theorizing that the Dark's power over body and will was of a unique elemental affinity. Evidently Leontera had run into a few interesting challenges when outfitting his undead soldiers with enchanted weaponry. 

They spent a good day deciphering every word of the water-stained text, then another week working with Rockbell to redesign the automail's inscriptions until she was satisfied that the modifications wouldn't impair the automail's function.

The next day they tried attaching the right automail hand again. 

The reaction was faster this time, as if some black beast crouched in the automail, ready to pounce. The Captain went rigid, his eyes wide, and through the Scan spell Basch could see the invading Dark spearing up his arm, not just keeping to the alchemy resonance paths this time, but spreading to the surrounding flesh. It filled the Captain's eyes, gold pupils bleeding to black. Rockbell cursed, disengaging the automail, and Basch cast Dispel over and over, more to do _something_ than because it seemed to help. The Captain slumped, and when his eyes fluttered open, they were gold once again. Basch knew the Captain's expression well enough to see the frustration there, quickly dispelled. What he did not see was fear. Basch wasn't sure what to make of that. 

Kimberly merely took a deep breath, seemingly shaking off the effects and speaking to Winry before she could even finish cursing about how well the integration of systems had worked and what did she think about adding in another layer....

Later, over lunch, Basch said, "You won't be able to distract Winry forever, sir."

A corner of the Captain's mouth quirked up slyly, but he said nothing around his spoonful of stew. Eating was mostly his own affair again, now that they'd worked out a brace that could hold eating implements strapped to his wrists. "What do you mean?"

"The way you started talking to her before she could think too hard about how badly it went today." Basch leaned forward. "It was worse this time, wasn't it, sir?"

Kimberly shrugged. "That depends upon your definition of 'worse'. The backlash was quicker this time, yes, but that was due to enhanced compatibility between the Dark and the alchemical resonance, which was rather the point of our efforts. In that sense, I consider it at least a partial success."

Basch just looked at him, attempting to channel one of Commander Archer's more eloquent skeptical looks.

Kimberly tilted his spoon. "Granted, it didn't address our main problem. However, it was an experiment that needed to be done, and if I were reluctant to risk my life in pursuit of my goals, I would be in the wrong line of work."

"Understandable, sir. It's just...." Basch poked at a bit of unidentifiable vegetable with his spoon, trying to find the words. It had been weeks since he'd feared speaking his mind around the Captain, but he'd found that there were times the Captain misunderstood. Particularly, oddly enough, when it came to people. The man could hold entire libraries in his head and plan a four-pronged attack in his sleep, but yet Basch didn't think that he realized the pressure he was putting on Winry. Or perhaps he just expected much of her. Basch cleared his throat. "It's just that Winry would feel responsible if something happened to you, sir. Even though none would blame her. Even though it is your choice, to take the risk. She is no soldier. She deals in healing, not death, and she--" _cares for you_ was on his tongue, but that was not his secret to share...if the Captain had not guessed it himself--"worries for your safety, sir."

The Captain looked thoughtful. "I will do my best to reassure her, then." He gestured at the notes they'd been working on: the Captain's ideas in Basch's handwriting. "I'm afraid this will be more complicated than any of us would like. Though she will have a bit of a rest from it." His lips quirked. "That is, if I can tempt you to aiding me on a trip to the University."

Basch blinked. "In Lea Monde?"

Kimberly's smile was smug. "Is there any other?" 

Basch had also learned that academic snobbery was apparently taught in Lea Monde about the same time as times tables and national capitals. "Of course not, sir."

"Then you would be up for a bit of a field trip?"

The snobbery of its graduates aside, the University at Lea Monde was the largest seat of magical learning in the world. Basch had only seen it from afar, when the Flames were passing through on their way to Stillwell. With no formal training himself, it was as close as Basch had ever expected to get. The idea of actually going inside, where some of the most powerful mages in the world taught and studied, was terrifying. "Of course, sir," Basch said. "When do we leave?"

\-------------

**Fusion: Fusion, Cold and Hot**

They left that week. The trip took less time than Basch was expecting, the longest stretch being traveling to the nearest teleporter in Lea Farin. It was only the second time that Basch had used one, and it reminded him of why he much preferred marching as a method of transportation. Marching seldom left him feeling as if he'd left his innards somewhere halfway between.

Their first stop was a lengthy and surprisingly entertaining chat with an old professor of Kimberly's, Emil Bardorba. The man was at least ninety years old, resembled nothing quite so much as a scarecrow with a leonine mane of white hair, and had a deep voice suited to oratory and looming intimidation. He also greeted Kimberly with a cheerful, "Zolf! How goes the mercenary business?", unearthed two chairs from underneath about a hundred pounds of books so they could sit in his office, and looked positively horrified when Kimberly explained why they were looking for information on Dark magic, though more from a "the Drachman bastards did _what_?" perspective than anything else. He sent them on their way with a lengthy list of books that might be useful, a note that would give them access to the restricted sections of the Library on his authority, the unfinished draft of his latest manuscript, and a standing invitation to tea. Basch liked him immensely. 

The Library was one immense, gray-stoned edifice that was almost a small city in and of itself. It was the largest building Basch had ever seen, taking up an entire square city block. It was five stories tall, had three sub-basements, and its miles of hallways, rooms, and stacks were so byzantine that the information desk had multi-page maps and locator charms available for the directionally challenged. 

To his surprise, Basch learned that there was a large section of texts open to the public (a necessity, Kimberly said, in a society where nearly everyone was at least a minor mage and was expected to learn enough control not to be a danger to themselves or others. Basch resolved to spend as much time as he could afford there, some winter.) The inner circle stacks, though, required proof of University attendance. Every day, Kimberly showed a flat metal pendant, a symbol of his graduation, which a bored-looking attendant would dutifully run under a special lamp. Every day the pendant glowed a different color, which was evidently the correct behavior, as they were always waved through. Inside, what walls were not covered by bookshelves were used as signposts. Chiseled stone or painted wooden signs or scrawled chalkings pointing directions. Rooms, Basch quickly realized, were not given anything so simple as numbers or letters. Instead they had arcane and sometimes amusing names drawn from their features or the books shelved there: The Fool's Rush (freshman texts on basic power flows, Kimberly told him), The Howling Cat (senior biology), The Shrieking Abbess (a long circular stair next to a wall of particularly dense church magic texts), Abandoned Hope (sophomore black magic). 

Further in, they would show Bardorba's letter to a much more alert guard to get access to the restricted stacks. The rooms there were smaller, quieter, and every now and then they'd pass a shelf that felt hot or cold or smelled of rot and cold stone. One hallway was lined on one side with black-bound tomes that poured dark dread off their shelves like syrup. A few feet away on the other side, row after row of scrolls gave off a glow like a cheerful campfire. Thankfully, the books they were looking for were not magical in and of themselves and were thus more...well-behaved. 

They stayed in Lea Monde for a long, sleepless fortnight. Cocooned in the Library's inner sanctums, the only sounds were their own breathing, the rustle of pages, the occasional footsteps of other researchers, and a low, vibrating hum that Basch eventually realized was the stones of the building itself. At first it was strange and distracting, but when sunk into the depths of research it soon became familiar. By the end of the week, Basch understood Kimberly's jest about how some students failed out because they wouldn't leave the library to attend classes (as opposed to those who couldn't find their way out, which was a separate joke.)

After two weeks, when Basch's head felt stuffed with information, his pack was heavy with notes, and he was fairly sure his right hand would take all winter to speak to him again, they returned to the Flying Phoenix and slept for a solid eighteen hours. At that point they were close enough to the end of the fighting season for it not to make sense to return to the border, and so they traveled with a small trader's caravan taking supplies up to the farming communities north of Lea Monde. The weather was beautiful, and they spent the day squinting in the sunshine and refining their half a dozen ideas of how to solve the automail problem: everything from trying the left hand first instead of the right (the left having had a different alchemical rune than the right and thus a different shade of resonance), to attempting to channel the Dark energies more precisely, to attempting to alter the alchemical resonance via temporary runes. 

Late that afternoon, as the road wended its way through a canyon, a small band of bandits attempted to box them in and demand toll. The caravan master told them to do something anatomically impossible with their request. 

Basch caught the Captain smiling from his seat among the flour sacks. Basch glanced over at the bandits. "Hardly a challenge," he said.

"Oh, but I'm terribly out of practice," Kimberly said, standing up so he could get a good view of their attackers.

The bandits started forward, menacing the lead driver, and magic swirled around the Captain's cloak hem. Thirty seconds later half the bandits were ashy smears on the road and the rest had limped away as fast as they could among the rocks. The drivers, after a moment of stunned silence, all applauded. The Captain grinned and bowed, and the caravan moved on. Thus they arrived at Stillwell two days before the rest of the company and in high spirits.

Thus, when Winry arrived with the rest of the Flames a little over a week later, the two of them were settled in their winter homes (Kimberly in his small house near the edge of town, Basch in the room he rented from a nice farm widow off the main road) and met her hopeful smile with a dizzying amount of infomation and an itemized list of possibilities. Winry got her winter workshop in order in record time and began work as the first leaves began to fall.

\-------------

As the autumn equinox passed, and fall faded into the depth of winter, they attempted attachment sixteen times. Right or left hand made no difference. Each time, Winry had no sooner whispered the first line of the attachment spell than the Dark rushed into the Captain like ink spreading in water. It could not be diverted from the path laid out straight to Kimberly's core. It could not be channeled. It could not be metered or held back.

Basch watched as the continued failure took its toll. Winry took to chewing her nails and visibly steeling herself before every attempt. Ed and Al told him (a bit accusingly, which Basch admitted was probably fair) that she was losing sleep, working late by the grace of coffee and determination. 

The Captain...the Captain grew quiet. Basch would have expected anger, outbursts, but the only frustration he allowed himself stayed in his eyes, and even that was ruthlessly quelled. He was never the most social man, but he withdrew even more, not leaving the house for weeks at a time. Basch brought him supplies as the snows fell, and, upon the Captain's request, tried to discourage visitors. He told them that the Captain was working and didn't wish to be disturbed, which was true enough. Kimberly pushed himself more than anyone else, going over their notes again and again, drafting Basch when he needed something drawn or moved. He lived less off the food that Basch brought than some inner fire that burned away all else as he bent himself to this one goal. Basch could only stay out of his way.

The Commanders asked Basch every now and then about the Captain's frame of mind. He covered the Captain's absorbed silences, the loss of his usual dry humor, his increasingly flat coldness at the slightest interruptions, as one would protect open wounds. Was Kimberly handling the unsuccessful automail attachments well? Yes, as well as could be expected. Was he eating and sleeping? Of course. Was he perhaps thinking of alternate paths if return to the battlefield proved impossible? Yes. Basch found himself lying, over and over, telling them what they wanted to hear. 

Between the fall equinox and the winter solstice, the Captain nearly died three times. On their last attempt, some days before midwinter, he lay unconscious all night as Winry and Basch sat by his bedside, hearts heavy with worry and exhaustion. When Kimberly woke, Basch breathed for the first time in what felt like days. Winry's smile was relieved, brave, but fragile as the frozen grass outside.

The house was quiet after she left. Kimberly lay against his pillow, eyes on the ceiling. Basch thought that he'd never been so tired in his life, and the Captain looked the part of a man who had nearly died. "Sir...." He didn't know what he was going to say. _This isn't going to work_ , perhaps, or _This is killing Winry_ or _If I asked you to stop, would it even slow you down?_. 

"I know," Kimberly said, eyes closing. He looked exhausted. "I know."

\-------------

His sleep that night was surprisingly deep for a man who'd spent most of a day unconscious. 

The dream started with him in front of a mirror. His reflection was in full uniform, though he was not. His reflection also had automail hands. 

Kimberly raised his hand (where his hand should be, where he always felt his hand _was_ though it was not) to the mirror, and he could feel warm glass under fingers that didn't exist. Warm glass became warm metal pressed against his fingers, and then he _had_ fingers, etched automail more ornate than they had ever attempted to make, alchemical arrays all but buried under Dark runery and glowing with an indigo light. Kimberly flexed his fingers, and he saw that the arrays spidered around the digits, over his fingertips, across his palm like those he had lost. They traveled up his arm, overlaying, reworking, _eclipsing_ the simpler, colder lines his old arrays had worn in his flesh.

He looked up, and his reflection smiled at him, satisfied. Its eyes were black and reflective as obsidian mirrors. As Kimberly fell into them, the scene they reflected flickered: a library and shelves of books, a bedroom and pliant skin, a battlefield red with blood.... Kimberly reached out at that last, wanting, wanting _so damn much_ , and he was there, the scent of blood and magic and char thick and achingly familiar in the back of his throat. The battlefield froze, the air cold in his lungs, and he saw in front of him a fortress built into a mountain. It was tall and imposing, utterly defensive and defensible, but his eyes were drawn away, to the mountains on the side, vision tunneling down and through and there was something there, something waiting, something that found him before he found it, settling over him like a warm cloak....

He woke at dawn, mind still underneath the mountains, and forgot that he didn't have hands until he saw his wrists. "Very funny," he murmured, though whether to his subconscious or the Dark, he wasn't certain. 

No. No, he _was_ certain, wasn't he?

Kimberly stood and walked over to the window. Sunlight spilled over the horizon, slanting over leafless forest and snow-covered field. The sky was cloudless, the day dawning bright and cold. The floorboards were chill under his feet.

The slow, simmering anger that had been building in him for the past months was gone, as if this last attempt had drained him of even that. There was, he thought, a certain fatalistic comfort to having your options narrowed, one by one, until only one was left. Well, two, but living without hands had never been an option in the first place. He could wish that his other option wasn't quite so ridiculous, but...well.

He turned from the window and began the slow process of dressing.

Rockbell arrived a little after lunch, cloaked unrecognizable against the cold and a wrapped bundle in her arms. Basch let her in, but she did not sit, her red eyes only on Kimberly.

"I'm sorry," she said, quietly. "I can't do this anymore." She set her bundle on the table. It clanked softly. "I didn't want to give up, because you wouldn't give up. But it's been months, and we're all out of ideas, and all we've managed to do is nearly kill you more times than I want to think about." She bit her lip, leaning forward on the table's edge. Her head dropped as she took a steadying breath. "Every time, I think that this will be the time we're not fast enough. That you'll die right in front of me and I just...I can't...." She looked up, and her eyes were lined with exhaustion. Like Basch's. Like his own. "I can't watch that," she said. "I can't _do_ that. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Kimberly closed his eyes. He'd been expecting this for weeks. To be honest he was surprised that she had let him push her this far.

"It's all right," he said. He brushed aside the wrappings to reveal two familiar automail hands, the sunlight picking out runes and arrays that Kimberly would (and did) know in his sleep. 

"I'm sorry," Rockbell whispered. "I can't help you do this anymore." She bit her lip, turning toward the door.

"Winry," he said.

She turned back, her hands gathering her cloak around her like a shield. Perhaps she expected him to argue. A month ago, Kimberly wasn't sure what he would have done in response. Now, though, it made little difference. Actually physically attaching the hands was easy enough, and the attachment spells.... He was beginning to think that they were part of the problem.

Kimberly barely had to school his expression into a small smile. "Thank you."

Her lip trembled, she bit it again, and then she was across the room, arms strong and tight around his chest. She smelled of wet wool, warm skin, and cut metal. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and felt her take a deep breath. "Don't do anything stupid," she muttered into his shirt.

He stroked her hair with the inside of his wrist. She was his, he realized. After everything, she was his. It was a reassuring thought. "Never," he answered.

She pulled back, with a sniff and a laugh. "I don't believe you." She hesitated, something warm and complicated flowing through her eyes, then shook her head and left, leaving him staring thoughtfully at the door as it closed behind her.

Long moments later, Basch asked quietly, "What are you going to do, sir? Without Winry...?"

Kimberly pulled his thoughts into line as he stood and gestured Basch into the living room, where there was a warm fire and afternoon sun. The cold made his stumps ache. "It doesn't matter," he said. "To be honest I don't think that Rockbell can help."

Basch furrowed his brow. "Sir?"

"Each time, problems begin with the attachment spells. We've tried everything to make me fall within the attachment spells' purview, and nothing has worked. I don't think that it ever will." Kimberly raised his wrist, eyes tracing where he knew the lines of alchemy still permeated his flesh. He saw in his mind's eye indigo runes crawling out of an automail hand, taking possession of what was there, turning it to its own use. "I have been marked. Rockbell's spells cannot account for that, and thus the Dark does not see me as it would a normal patient. It sees that alchemical residue as power to be claimed, and me along with it."

Basch shook his head as he sunk down into his chair. "Have you given up, then, sir?"

"On using the standard procedure, yes. But there is an alternative. A very old alternative that I've been discounting all along." Kimberly sat and gestured to the last of the Dark research stacked on the table between the chairs. "For months I've been treating this as a purely scientific problem, assuming that the old ways were mistaken. Surely all their trappings of conversing with a sentient Dark were mere superstitious interpretation of something more rational." He shook his head. "I think I was wrong. The Dark has been sending scouting parties out to map me every time we attempted attachment. I've gotten impressions from it, and the further we've gone, the more they've puzzled me. One would expect if it was sentient that it would be angry that we keep denying it, frustrated that we keep breaking the connection, but instead it has grown...amused." He shook his head. "I never thought I'd say it, but there is something there, and it is aware, reasoning, and playing a game with me as with a particularly slow child."

Kimberly looked out into the blinding snow. "I'm going to attempt attachment without Rockbell's spells. If they are part of the problem, then I must negotiate a new contract for myself."

Basch sat back in his chair, a troubled look crossing his face. "Are you sure that is wise, sir? What will it want in return?"

"I don't know. But I am willing to find out."

That troubled look deepened into a frown. "And if it takes you over, sir?"

Kimberly's lips twisted mirthlessly. "Then you'll have to stop me."

Basch's bark of a laugh was just as humorless. "I wouldn't be able to stop just _you_ , sir, let alone the force of the Dark."

"I think you underestimate yourself." Kimberly tilted his head. "Though you are probably right." He looked into the fire, thoughtful. "I would say that you needn't be here, but it would be a lie. I need someone to attach the automail, someone who would admittedly be much too close to me if something goes immediately wrong." He looked up, meeting and holding Basch's eyes. "It's selfish and too much to ask, but I'm asking it of you anyway. It is your choice."

"My choice," Basch echoed softly. He closed his eyes. "With all due respect, sir, sometimes you can be an idiot." When Kimberly merely raised an eyebrow instead of replying, (after all, he couldn't exactly argue), Basch sighed and stood, going over to stoke the fire. He stood for a long moment, looking into the flames. "My family serves...served...the Landis royal line for as long as anyone can remember. We served good rulers and bad, those who valued us and those that didn't." He turned, leaning against the hearth. "It never mattered which it was. Even in the darkest times, when we were used as mere pawns to be thrown down and away, my family would not serve another. It was tradition, you see. And though my ancestors would no doubt strike me dead to say it, I've learned that it makes no sense to waste one's life for someone, anyone, simply because you have sworn fealty to them. And yet, that is what loyalty is. A very particular, honorable kind of madness."

Kimberly could only agree, though he didn't say so.  
  
Basch's smile was grim. "It is a madness that I share. But my loyalty is no longer to Landis. I will not serve as my family served, blind and mute. I will not swear fealty to lord or lady for tradition alone. I will choose...I _have_ chosen...one whom I respect and who has earned my loyalty." He pushed away from the bricks, and up close his expression was part determination, part embarrassed hesitation. Basch knelt on one knee before Kimberly's chair, automail fist over his heart. "My choice has already been made, sir." 

Kimberly stared for a long moment. Basch, he decided, was right. He _was_ mad, but it was a madness that dropped warm satisfaction into Kimberly's heart. Carefully, he laid his wrist on Basch's shoulder. "You are very sure you want to give me such an oath?"

Basch's eyes never wavered. "You have given me this life, sir. It is yours."

Kimberly gave a slow nod. "Very well. This last attempt could end up being a grand waste of both of us, though. It is still your choice." He pulled back his arm, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I will not order you to do this, Basch."

"Sir," Basch said, drawing himself up, "you do not have to." 

\-------------

Three nights later, on Midwinter, the shortest day of the year, Basch drew an invocation circle on the slate floor of Kimberly's workroom. Outside that, he drew protective wards until the sun set and Longnight began. Kimberly supervised with a critical eye. If the wards would be needed at all, they would probably not help _him_ , but Stillwell and the people in it had treated him well. They deserved whatever protection from a Dark-addled mage a good protective ward could provide.

Of course, the best protection would have been to ring the house with as many Flames as he could drag out of their winter burrows, but that would lead to more questions and second guessing than Kimberly had the patience to deal with.

Finally, Basch ran out of chalk and stood, stretching to ease his back. Kimberly nodded. "It's well done."

Basch tossed the last nub of chalk back into the dish, dusting off his hands. "I hope that it is never put to the test."

"You and I both." Kimberly glanced out the doorway, back towards the living room and its clock. "It's almost time."

Basch brought in the automail, setting them on the table in the center of the circle. Then he brought in his sword, unsheathed it, and set it outside the invocation circle but inside the protective ward. Kimberly moved into the inner circle, and after one last look around at his handiwork, Basch joined him. As they waited, ears tuned for the chiming of midnight, Kimberly said, "Thank you. For everything." 

Basch looked as if he might say something, but the clock tolled the hour, and he merely nodded, bowing slightly. Kimberly laid his right port on the table, and Basch lined up the automail, fingers deft over the catches to hold them open for the connection.

Kimberly had an invocation memorized - one of the simplest he'd found - but he didn't get the chance to use it, unless a stray thought of "Fine, then, we will try this your way," as the hand snapped into place counted. Which, for all Kimberly knew, it did, as he got nothing more out before warm, comfortable numbness spilled up his wrist, up his arm, and into his chest.

His vision wavered, as if looking through heat or murky water or both. The veil cleared, and he recognized the images from his dreams: two runed and arrayed automail hands; a library to rival the Library in all but personality; a comfortable bed pillowed with velvets and warm, willing flesh; a battlefield of hill and valley and crag, killing fields and the scream of detonating magic.

_Yes, yes,_ he thought, _I know what you are offering. But what do you **want**?_

The numbness was starting to prickle, like his hand had fallen asleep, but more painful, more like the feel of Rockbell's spells.

A frission of amusement rippled through the air, and Kimberly inexplicably felt silent laughter falling like rain upon his skin. Again the images turned, slower this time, accompanied by a strange, hot, complicated joy that was not his own.

Kimberly began to understand.

The scene shifted to the snowy fortress, the mountains and the darkness beneath. There was something there, Kimberly realized, something that the Dark wanted back...no, wanted **free** , which was something similar. There were other things, he knew for no particular reason, similar but not identical to what was buried under the mountains, Things of Power lost and waiting to be found.

_That is it? Take your gifts and use them?_

_**YES**_ echoed in his bones, danced along his spine.

Kimberly didn't believe it. Not for one minute. It was too easy. It was likely some kind of trap. 

He didn't care.

_Done._

And then he was back in his workroom, hissing as the tingling in his stump coalesced into a sharp, pure pain that was a flash along his nerves and then gone. He shook his head, clearing the last of the shadows from his vision.

"Sir?" Basch was still standing next to him, his expression wary, his hands still cradling the automail (and Kimberly could _feel_ that, oddly different from the way normal skin could feel). Either Basch was very slow or the entire episode had taken seconds.

"I'm all right," Kimberly said, breathing out as the pain finally faded. "It's done." He turned over his hand ( _his_ hand), dragging one finger along Basch's palm and then drumming his fingers against the table. They still tingled, but no worse than a limb that had fallen asleep and was rapidly waking. He flexed his fingers and, with a smile, picked up the left hand. Finding and depressing all the catches required a bit of adjustment, but more because he couldn't see them all than due to his hand. The left hand snapped into place with that same bolt of pain that burned outward along his nerves and then was gone.

Kimberly raised his hands and wiggled his fingers. The control was flawless, as if the past few months had been but a dream of being handless. Also as if he'd had the automail for months. Evidently the Dark had felt him worth a more perfect attachment than even Rockbell's spells could match.

Basch's smile was happy, but wry. "That's it? I was expecting apparitions and blood pacts."

"Yes, rather anticlimactic, wasn't it?" Kimberly sighed, laughing. "Let this be a lesson to you: I don't always know what the hell I'm talking about."

The last of the tension bled out of Basch's stance, and his laugh was infectious. "Quite all right, sir. I'll just add 'Dark sorcery' to the list of things that I never knew I'd study but which I'm sure will be useful someday."

Kimberly chuckled, eyes following the lines of rune and buried array. He peered at the palms, the smooth fingertips, and wondered why they looked odd. Then he remembered his dream-hands, more heavily-marked, with arrays there and there, linked in through there and...hmmm. 

Hmmmm....

He glanced up at Basch, his smile turning sly. "If I went to Rockbell and said that I had ideas for modifying these--"

"At this time of night? She would _punch_ you, sir," Basch said, with a smile but no hesitation. "And then demand to know what you did. And then she might punch you again and go make coffee."

Kimberly hadn't been thinking about going right then, but he couldn't keep his hands still, let alone the rest of him, and wasn't sure if he wanted to ever again. He had months to make up for. 

Just a walk. It wasn't too cold for a walk. And if Rockbell's windows were dark, he'd not be obnoxious and wake her. Probably.

Basch left the room as Kimberly extinguished the lamps and returned with their cloaks and a wide grin. Kimberly took his and settled it around his shoulders with his own hands.


	5. Epilogue:  Downstream Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kimberly had to rate his father's influence as an overall positive one.

**Epilogue: Downstream Reaction**

Kimberly didn't talk about his family not out of some deep-seated trauma, but because there was little to talk _about_. He was an only child, his mother had died of an unexpected illness when he was at university, and his father had been so absent during his childhood that he was more distant relative than parent.

Kimberly never made it a point to disseminate the information but neither did he avoid the subject when it came up in casual conversation. He found the variety of responses he got interesting: everything from Rockbell's soft-eyed expression of sympathy to Edward's sniffed, "Sounds like our father, always haring off doing who knows what. Haven't seen him for what, ten years? Longer?"

Alphonse had looked up from his spellbook, head cocked in thought, "...eleven, I think. Though to be fair, I doubt he could find us if he wanted. It's not as if we're where he left us."

"Hmph. Good riddance," Edward had said, with a vicious last swipe of whetstone over metal. 

Kimberly had just smiled. He was more charitable towards his own father, the two of them having come early to an agreement on how much they didn't want or need each others' undivided attention. They ran into each other every few years, as they haunted the same vendors in Lea Monde. They also exchanged a few letters a year: a combination of scholarly debate and small talk that was heavy on the former, with only enough of the latter to keep them vaguely aware of each other's whereabouts until their next communication. That was, they had silently agreed, quite enough.

Also, Kimberly thought, his new hands would be much less useful had his father never left behind his alchemy notes for a young and curious Zolf Kimberly to pick up. Of course, without his arrays, he might not have had to get new hands at all, but given his satisfaction with his automail, Kimberly had to rate his father's influence as an overall positive one.

\-------------

"Is this seat taken?"

Kimberly looked up from the dregs of his coffee, dragging his thoughts from mental calculations of winter supplies needed and their attendant costs. The cafe's terrace might have been outside, but he'd taken a table close enough to the wall to be away from most of the foot traffic through the square, and this early in the morning there were plenty of empty tables. The shadow cast over his table by the morning sun was familiar, though, and Kimberly smiled. "Not at all." He gestured. "Please."

"Thank you." Metal scraped on stone as Professor Van Hohenheim pulled out the other chair and settled into it. "What luck that we ran into each other. I expected you to already have headed north. You've saved me the postage."

Kimberly tilted a hand. "Normally you'd be correct. Our schedule this year has been unorthodox."

"Ah, I remember you said as much last winter, but I never heard the details before leaving for Ishval." Hohenheim had only begun to turn to look for the waiter than he appeared as if summoned.

The man, whose name Kimberly could never remember, bowed slightly and murmured, "It's good to see you back, Professor. May I bring you anything?"

"Coffee, please...and you might as well bring the pot. Are there scones this morning?"

"Apple, cranberry, almond, and lemon, sir."

"Hmmm, a cranberry and an almond, then."

"Yes, sir. Anything more for you, Captain?"

"I'll filch some of his coffee."

"Very good, sir." The man disappeared back into the cafe, and Hohenheim turned back around in his seat. His eyes caught the morning sun, glinting the same bleached gold as his hair, both bright against his tanned face. He certainly looked the part of a man who'd spent most of the year in the desert.

"You've only just returned, then?" Kimberly asked.

"Two days ago. Why?"

"If you haven't heard this season's story, then you're a letter behind."

"My apologies. I'm sure it is sitting at the bottom of the truly impressive mountain of mail pushed behind my front door. One of the hazards of sabbaticals."

"As I expect to have such a pile of my own when I get to Stillwell, I will forgive you."

"Very gracious of you. Ah, my thanks." Hohenheim took the filled cup the waiter offered. The man turned the pot to Kimberly questioningly, and Kimberly nudged his cup forward to be refilled. The waiter silently left the pot between them.

Hohenheim took a sip and sighed. "Of all the luxuries of civilization, I always miss coffee the most. The Ishvalans brew an herbal tea that would raise the dead, but there's no coffee to be had."

"We always run out, somehow," Kimberly said. "Usually towards the end of the season, when it would be most useful." He sipped his own. It was good, as always. Camp coffee would raise a three-day-old corpse, but it was so bitter that it was more medicine than pleasure. "This season ran so late that we ran out of both coffee and tea."

"My sincerest sympathies. Was there a mutiny in the offing?"

"It was a near thing."

They drank in silence for a moment, and the waiter appeared with scones. Hohenheim busied himself with clotted cream and jam, looking up now and then to watch Kimberly with an odd seriousness. "All joking aside, I am glad to see you well. I had heard disturbing rumors on my return that you had been injured."

Kimberly chuckled. "Since when do University professors listen to the mercenary rumor mill?"

A look of, oddly enough, hurt crossed Hohenheim's face. "Since one's son became a mercenary."

Kimberly held up his hands in defense against the misstep. "I merely meant that I didn't realize our exploits were so widely discussed among those not carrying their own swords."

"They are not. However, I have my sources." Both offered tentative smiles as peace offerings, and the moment passed. "I am glad to see that in this case they were incorrect."

Kimberly took a long sip of coffee. Letting his father find out in the letter waiting for him would be cruel, he knew, and yet Kimberly was inexplicably still reluctant to tell the tale. It had been the same as when he'd written (or rather, had Basch write) the letter before that, the fall after he'd been wounded. That time he had deliberately not mentioned it. Falling as it had days after their second disastrous attempt at conventional automail, he _really_ hadn't been ready to talk about it, and it had been easy to justify not including it in his letter, as everything had still been in flux and the letter would have been outdated as soon as it was received. And despite the occasional social fumble on either of their parts, Kimberly respected his father too much to worry him needlessly. 

Perhaps it would have been wise to enlist his father's help in his quest to design alchemy-compatible automail, but...well. Every son wants to make his own way.

It was that very sentiment, tempered with more than a little professional pride, that overcame his reluctance. He was sure that he was inviting a lecture on the inadvisability of mixing magical systems and a warning about the general fickleness and intractability of the Dark, but he thought the look on his father's face might be worth it. 

"Not incorrect," Kimberly admitted. "Merely incomplete."

The morning was chill enough to warrant the gloves Kimberly was wearing. He wore them partly for warmth (the automail would conduct the heat right out of his wrists, and any protection from the wind helped), but mostly because he did not want to draw attention. The tale of the Flames with mechanical limbs had been circulating for several seasons, but Kimberly liked to minimize how many people got a good look at his arrays. He wasn't sure whether anyone had put together all of their capabilities, and there was no reason to give away more than necessary, after all.

Kimberly took the gloves off now, spreading his hands palm-down on the table between them, on either side of the coffeepot.

Kimberly had inherited his father's unflappability and could count on one hand the times he'd managed to elicit a genuine, slack-jawed look of surprise. "Good gods, Zolf," Hohenheim breathed, leaning forward to inspect even as he asked, "What happened?"

"I was captured by the Drachmans. The loss of my hands was partly...academic curiousity, but mostly torture."

Hohenheim looked up from his inspection of one of the runic arrays flowing down the back of Kimberly's left hand, incredulous. "...by cutting off your _hands_?"

Kimberly shrugged. "I was being uncooperative, and they were annoyed. I was probably no more than a day from being killed out of hand, at the time."

Hohenheim's expression was something too complicated for Kimberly to read. He held Kimberly's gaze for a perplexingly long time before closing his eyes and shaking his head. "And you managed to escape?"

"I was rescued, actually. Several favors to a few of my more...loyal and foolhardy men paid off."

Hohenheim looked down at his coffee cup. "I am glad, to put it mildly." He shook his head again. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm not used to seeing such firsthand evidence of the dangers of your profession."

Kimberly was rather surprised at that (his father was usually quite good about thinking through implications), but didn't say so. It hardly mattered, though, as Hohenheim's eyes were already drawn back to his hands. "These are the handiwork of your Amestrian mechanic foundling, then? The runes are fairly Dark-heavy...wait.... ...is that my tertiary bridge array?"

Kimberly smiled. "I believe it would be more precisely described as _my_ tertiary bridge array, given the amount of modification that it needed to link properly."

The look of dawning astonishment as Hohenheim began to actually _look_ at the arrays in question was everything Kimberly had hoped it would be. "You've connected...and linked...." He rubbed one temple in an aggrieved gesture that Kimberly hadn't seen since he was a teenager. "You've melded Dark rune magic into an alchemical array."

"Actually, modified an alchemical array to draw from a Dark generative layer--which makes all the difference, incidentally--but yes."

"Dare I even _ask_ how you got the Dark to cooperate with anything so structured as alchemy?"

"Trial and error. Encasing the alchemy in so much Dark runicry that the Dark practically took possession of it. Luck."

Hohenheim rubbed a hand over his face. "Please tell me that you had a better reason than academic curiosity to court a possible backlash."

Kimberly suppressed his annoyance at the condescension. "Remember how you warned me that my tattoos would increase my body's alchemical resonance and lead to interference?"

"Yes."

"You were right."

"Hmmph," his father said, in a tone that wasn't quite "I told you so", but was close.

"We attempted Ms. Rockbell's usual automail attachment, and the dissonance nearly killed me." He tapped one finger to the back of the opposite hand with a click. "This type of synthesis was the only way to bridge the gap. And, of course, it allowed me to inscribe these."

He turned over his hands, and Hohenheim nearly choked on his coffee at the array of offensive alchemy laid out before him, delicately engraved on each fingertip.

"You...." Hohenheim coughed, "By the gods, you do nothing by halves." He looked from Kimberly's hands to his face. "They...work?"

"Perfectly." Kimberly's smile was smug. "Would I admit to them, otherwise?"

Hohenheim barked a laugh. "You would have made an excellent academic."

He would have made an extremely _bored_ academic, but that was an old argument, and Kimberly didn't feel the need to rehash it. 

"May I?" Hohenheim gestured at Kimberly's hands, fingers creeping across the table.

Kimberly nodded, reaching further into the sunlight to place his hand in his father's outstretched palm. His father's hands dwarfed his own. "I would prefer that this not go further than the two of us, of course."

"Of course." Hohenheim tilted Kimberly's right index finger with a gentle fingertip, to better look at the ignition array engraved there. "Speaking of which...did you say that they took your hands out of academic curiosity? About the conversion arrays?"

"Yes. It's a rather embarrassing story about my failed escape attempt. Suffice to say I gave them an up-close and personal demonstration of the arrays' use under such circumstances that made it clear that they were not conventional evocation magic. Unfortunately, it was in front of a magecorps officer who knew something of Kildean magical theory. She was curious as to my application of it, though I think that being offered my severed hands was more than she was expecting."

"Drachma," Hohenheim murmured. "I suppose they have the history for it, with Kildea on their old southern border. Still...." Hohenheim moved on to the thumb, rubbing a finger over the smooth lack of engraving. Kimberly made a motion to circle thumb and forefinger, demonstrating how he completed the circuit by way of explanation. "Of course." He touched a finger joint, lightly. "The hands themselves seem amazingly responsive."

"They are. I've lost the ability to feel most sensation through them, of course, but fine manipulations aren't a problem at all. Pressure sensitivity doesn't exactly feel like I remember, but it's sufficient."

"Fascinating." Hohenheim sat back in his chair again, hands cupping his coffee. "When you mentioned finding an automail mechanic, I thought that I'd have to come view her handiwork sometime, though I could wish that it was under other circumstances."

Kimberly flexed his hands. "I have few complaints. Ms. Rockbell's work is excellent. She is more engineer than mage, but without her insight into the magics behind her work, I never would have been able to link the systems. For that matter, without others I never would have been able to actually draw out the arrays for her to inscribe. I was lucky to have them all available when I needed them."

"It sounds as if you have made your own luck," Hohenheim said, smiling.

Kimberly smiled back. "I have certainly tried. I have only recently discovered how well I've succeeded."

"I shall still have to meet your mechanic some day. It would be interesting to talk with her." Hohenheim's eyes still lingered on Kimberly's hands as he put his gloves back on. "I do worry, though...the way the Dark has taken possession of the alchemical power flows.... You said there was still resonance in your body from the tattoos?" 

Ah, here comes the lecture, Kimberly thought. "Hn, yes. And yes, the Dark has taken possession of that, too. I watched it flow right up my arms, minutes after the attachment."

"...and it has been persistent?"

"As far as I can tell. Of course it is renewed every time I use the arrays."

Hohenheim stared at him. "And that...doesn't worry you?"

Kimberly spread his hands. "It was a trade I was willing to make. What choice did I have? To live without hands was not an option. And if I was going to be Dark-aligned from the attachment anyway, what harm was there in modifying offensive arrays to work in the same way? The advantages are clear: unSilenceable offensive spells that can be cast independent of my own personal energies are incredibly useful on the battlefield."

Hohenheim closed his eyes, a faint glimmer of blue forming around his hand, a Scanning spell halfway cast by the time he asked, "If I may?"

Kimberly sighed. "If you must." This, he thought wryly as the spell fell over him like pyreflies in spring, was why he hadn't asked for Professor Van Hohenheim's help in crafting his automail. 

Hohenheim opened his eyes, then closed them again with a wince.

"I know," Kimberly said. "It's rather dramatic."

"That...is one way to put it." Hohenheim tossed back the last of his coffee like liquor, then rubbed his temple again. "What side effects has it had?"

"Reduced efficacy of conventional affective magic, including curative magics, which I admit is worrying. I felt rather naked out there this season, being unsure if white magic would work in a timely enough manner, if needed."

"I can see how that would be a handicap in your profession, yes."

Kimberly shrugged again. He felt like he'd been doing that a lot in the course of the conversation. "Less of a handicap than being handless." He decided that there was no need to mention the other side effect that he'd noticed. A tendency to oddly vivid dreams was the least of Kimberly's worries, but his father would likely make more of it. 

Hohenheim stared at him for a long moment, brow furrowed, then raised his hands, as if in defeat. "There is no arguing with you, I gather?"

"On this subject? No. The advantages simply outweigh whatever theoretical disadvantages I might run into." Kimberly gestured, fingers fanning. "And besides, what is done is done."

Hohenheim's expression grew worried again in that complicated way that Kimberly could never quite decipher. Nonetheless, he acquiesced. "Fair enough. Merely...be aware. The Dark can be useful, 'tis true, but it can also demand a heavy price on--" He stopped, then sighed. "I was going to say on the unwary and the weak-willed, but you are neither of those things."

Kimberly tilted his chin in acknowledgment, some of his irritation fading away. "I will," he said, "be vigilant. I have read the histories. I don't plan on becoming another mindless undead. Or a repeat of the Black King, for that matter." No, Kimberly thought, whatever destruction he wreaked would be wholly by his own choice. "The Dark is...an ally. With all the capacity to betray or take advantage of weakness that any ally has." He spread his hands again. "Nothing more, nothing less."

A long look, and then a grudging, "Fair enough." Hohenheim sighed, leaning his cheek on one fist, his eyes on Kimberly's gloved hands. "...they _are_ tremendously impressive work."

"Thank you." Kimberly accepted the compliment as the peace offering it was. "And after all, what is life without a little excitement? Speaking of which, the lack of proper coffee aside, how was Ishval?"

His father looked vaguely relieved at the change of subject. "Informative. Promising. Also, very hot."

"I've heard that deserts get like that, yes. I hope that the trip was worth it?"

"It was. I believe I found the remains of a Xerian outpost. Amazingly well-preserved, too."

Kimberly made an interested noise as he pulled his gloves back on. The Ishvalan Desert was littered with such outposts, relics of the time when Ishval was a Xerian border colony. They were something of a dime a dozen: standard installations worn by sand and time into bare skeletons of interest only to military historians and the most (or least) imaginative of anthropologists. Still, that did not keep the University from sending a steady trickle of researchers in search of them.

Hohenheim's voice was suspiciously light. "It was a training outpost for the local Xerian magecorps."

Kimberly's hand froze in the middle of reaching for the coffee pot. "...oh?"

"Indeed." Hohenheim took his time about repouring his coffee, then sipping it. "At least, that is my best guess. Based mostly on the fact that it had an actual library."

Kimberly's hand dropped absently back to the table.

Hohenheim met his eyes, a slightly familiar, impish smile playing on his lips.

In some ways, Kimberly thought, they were entirely too much alike. The tendency towards smugness over ancient magical relics was certainly one of them.

Hohenheim relented after a moment more. "Unfortunately, though the library was as well-preserved as the rest, it was also almost empty. There were a few basic texts that are quite interesting but also so incredibly delicate that I doubt we'll get more than one word in ten out of them. It was hard to tell, but it looked as if the Xerians had abandoned the place on purpose and took much of what was useful with them. That is what local legend in the nearby villages says, also."

"Ah," Kimberly said, slightly disappointed despite himself. "Unfortunate."

Hohenheim held up a finger. "However. One of the villages had something even more valuable to tell me. A story from a trader, who often traveled to Xing by way of the Xerian ruins. He said that one night he'd lost the road in a sandstorm and had to search for shelter. He found a cave, or what he thought was a cave, and went inside to escape the storm. There he found what he described as walls of scrolls and tablets that he could not read, but the alphabet of which looked vaguely familiar. When the storm passed, he took his bearings and left the place. Later, thinking that perhaps there might be something of value there, he returned, but monsters had taken up residence, and he was unable to get inside. Some sort of drake family, he said." 

Hohenheim leaned forward. "I would have dismissed this as the trader's version of the fisherman's 'one that got away' story, except for two things. First, he had a partial tablet that he'd taken out with him the first time as proof. I don't have the rendering here, but trust me that it was definitely Xerian script. It was the bottom half of the tablet, so I only could see the ends of the phrases, but they appeared to be part of a treatise on magical rendering."

Kimberly nodded slowly as he refilled his cup and gestured to the waiter with the empty pot.

"Second, the trader described to me very clearly the area around this cave. He was apparently interested enough in it to take his bearings when the storm passed. South of a strange, melted pyramid in a large plaza or square, he said. He was even able to draw the pyramid and the arrangement of buildings, which looked terribly familiar to me. I had seen it in one of my colleagues' seminars after one of his trips to Xerxes. That very distinctive landmark fits what the Ancient Civ department has determined was the location of the Xerxes Grand Library."

Kimberly blinked and furrowed his brow. "Which was destroyed along with the rest of the city, yes?"

"Yes!" His father held his hands in a waiting gesture. "Now, several who've excavated Xerxes have said as much, that the Library is razed down to the bare stone, like much of the rest of the city. But!" Kimberly had not seen his father this excited about anything since...ever, practically. "The Library was supposedly huge, its collection immense and from all over the world. The few descriptions we still have of it, however, describe multiple sub-basements, in which were kept the more fragile and precious volumes that were not to be displayed to the general public. Now, the trader's 'cave' was an opening that led underground. A sharp, relatively fresh crack through solid stone, an open space, and then stairs that led further downwards. Now. Imagine, if you will, a cataclysm powerful enough to destroy an entire city in a single night, leaving melted stone in its wake. That lava pools at the lowest points, partially filling the basements of buildings before hardening again. Leaving the impression of bedrock--" 

Kimberly sat back in his chair. "--but effectively sealing further sub-basements beneath it. Until...earthquake? Monster activity?...cracks open the stone, allowing access again."

Hohenheim beamed like a boy on Yule morning. "Exactly!"

Kimberly chuckled. "It's certainly an attractive theory." He sighed ruefully, recognizing the glint in the professor's eyes. "You want to go investigate. In the desert. Based on academic estimation, supposition, hearsay, and the word of an Ishvalan trader."

"Well, of course." Hohenheim's grin was very white in his tanned face. "What is life without a little excitement?"

"In this case, much cooler," Kimberly pointed out. "So I gather that next summer will be hot for you as well? Shall I send you extra coffee rations for Yule?"

"Actually," Hohenheim said slowly, "I was thinking of next winter....and I was hoping that you would be interested in coming with me."

Kimberly blinked. "Me?" He couldn't remember the last time he and his father had spent more than a few hours in each others' presence. "You are serious?"

"Very. As you suggest, the entire expedition could very well turn out to be a wild goose hunt, and that aside, the University will not fund another expedition so soon after the one I just returned from. I will be lucky if they release the funds for me to take another paid sabbatical. Thus I'm looking at a long trip to a possibly monster-infested site, with minimal ability to hire support." Hohenheim reclaimed the last of his scone, popping it in his mouth absently.

"Ah, I see. You just need a bodyguard." It wasn't all of it, even Kimberly could see that, but the jest was a good enough diversion to give him time to think.

Hohenheim thumped a hand on the table. "No! Well, all right, a bit, but that's not my main motivation by any means." He leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes intense. "I want you there, Zolf, as the only other man in Lea Monde who has cultivated alchemy as a living discipline. Xerxes taught the Kildeans everything they knew about alchemy, and forgot half again as much. This could be...well, I doubt I need to speculate for you what this could be. A once in a lifetime opportunity to see the original texts, to say the least." Hohenheim's brow furrowed, his words turning hesitant. "Surely this tempts you?"

"Of course." Kimberly chose to focus on that rather than the very real prospect that he was going to be taking on a potentially dangerous endeavor for no pay. 

Nor was that the only issue that might arise. Hohenheim could be naive in odd ways, when it came to academic knowledge. Or rather, when it came to academic knowledge that could be put to practical use. Hohenheim, like many people, made the mistake of assuming that others would make the same choices as he would himself. And now he was wanting to lead Kimberly, a man who made his living by killing people, to the Great Library of a civilization so magically advanced that it had managed to obliterate itself in one night. Kimberly using something they found in a way his father would not approve of wasn't likely to happen overnight, but it was certainly a possibility sometime in the future. Still, if Hohenheim had forgotten Kimberly's tendency to do just that, well.... Kimberly was not about to remind him.

Mostly, Kimberly had to admit, because he did want to go. It _was_ a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he had found himself getting restless through the winter off season lately anyway. Granted, that might change after this winter, but likely not, and in that case, better to tromp about on a possible wild goose chase than simmer in Stillwell.

"Very well," Kimberly said. "You've intrigued me. Sign me on."

His father beamed. "Excellent!"

"With--" Kimberly held up a finger. "A few obvious caveats. Business, as usual, might intercede, and this winter that business includes an option for the following season. Technically the winter after that is free, but if we should need the extra time, or circumstances intervene...."

"Of course. Life is uncertain, especially in your profession." Hohenheim waved a hand as he sat back, still smiling. "We can reconvene closer to the date, when we're more certain of the schedule." He spread his hands. "And, if need be, we could postpone. The Library has been buried for centuries. Another year should make little difference."

Kimberly raised an eyebrow. "If a passage has opened up to inquisitve traders and nesting drakes, then it would also be open to wildlife...the elements...other nosy academics.... The clock has already started anew, I'd imagine. Quite frankly, I'm surprised that you would wait so long simply so that I might accompany you." Kimberly wasn't sure why he pointed it out. Likely because he was as prone as anyone else to being unable to understand another's choices

A look that Kimberly tentatively labeled "uncomfortable" and possibly "embarrassed" crossed his father's face. "My reasons stand. You are the best man for the job, and that is that. Nothing to be done about it." He cleared his throat, reaching for his coffee. "Rather odd for you to be working through the winter, isn't it?"

Their relationship was built upon both of them letting such transitions pass without comment. "Indeed." Kimberly said. "My capture damaged Lea Monde's faith in me, and the Flames by extension. Our work this past season was more catch-as-can and less well-paid than usual." 

Hohenheim frowned. "Quite a harsh judgment. It seems like adding insult to injury, as it were."

Kimberly tilted a hand. "I can understand their reasoning, as inconvenient as it is. Only time will prove to them that I did not betray their confidence in any fashion." He flicked a finger. "Besides, it was touch and go for awhile if I would even be fieldworthy, and sudden changes in leadership makes clients nervous."

"I hope that this won't damage your reputation permanently."

Kimberly smiled. "Oh, I doubt it. Though Lea Monde had reservations about hiring us, Amestris did not. Half of the season was spent patrolling a truly unpleasant stretch of the Amestris-Drachma border. Did you know that Amestris manages to have swamps in the North Range?"

"I did not," Hohenheim said, over the rim of his coffee cup.

"They do. The passes through are tricky and too narrow to move through on a large scale, but the Drachman border patrols use them for raiding." Kimberly smirked. "Or they used to. They ran into a bit more resistance than usual this season, and it might be quite awhile before they're up to it."

"Ah. Which will also help to convince your naysayers that you bear Drachma nothing but ill will."

"That and this winter besides. We so impressed the Amestrians that we were offered a winter posting at the Briggs fortress. As you said, not normally a tempting prospect, but with everyone's wallets a bit thin after this season...well. The vote was more than a mere majority."

"I wouldn't think that Drachma would cause much trouble in winter."

"They don't usually. However, there's a firebrand general on the borders nowadays, and he has made the Amestrians nervous. They probably think that he will try to steal a march on them as soon as the passes open and are willing to pay to be prepared." Kimberly didn't mention anything about that particular general, nor about how he had recently transferred his attentions from Lea Monde to Amestris. His father didn't need to know everything. 

Kimberly shrugged. "If they are wrong, it will be an easy paycheck, and winter's board besides."

Hohenheim nodded, looking somewhat relieved. "It sounds as if you deserve it. I hope you'll accept an old man's good wishes and hopes that you'll have an uneventful winter."

That was perhaps the last thing he wanted out of Briggs, but Kimberly smiled and did not say so.

After that, Kimberly steered the conversation back to Ishval, and his father told him a bit more about his travels that summer, though nothing, Hohenheim admitted, could compare to word of the Great Library. Nonetheless, by the time he was done it was late enough that they ordered lunch, doffing their cloaks as the afternoon sunshine crept over their table. After they'd cleaned their plates and finished the last pot of coffee, they both admitted that they had to go, wished each other well, and Hohenheim was the first to leave his half of the bill on the table and leave, his long stride quickly taking him around the corner, towards the University.

Kimberly swung his own cloak back around his shoulders. The slight weight of his notebook in one of the internal pockets reminded him of something else he'd forgotten to mention. Ah, just as well. He doubted that his father would have approved of him combing the North Range for Dark artifacts, anyway. Still, he thought, he could only hope that his last few days in the University library would bear fruit. 

A man who was not reliably on speaking terms with curative magicks would, he imagined, find a lost Kildean relic called "The Ultimate Shield" incredibly useful.

But that and the search for the Great Library were for later. Now was for ordering the rest of their needed supplies, for the trip back to Stillwell, and for the journey to Amestris. For planning just what might happen if he ran into a particular Drachman general in the coming months. After that...well. 

Kimberly tilted his face up to the sun and smiled, disappearing into the midday hustle and bustle of Lea Monde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shameless tie-in to a sequel that may or may not be written. And yes, I am implying exactly what you think I am about Ed, Al, and Kimberly. I've toyed with this idea ever since I noticed that the Elrics and Kimberly all have golden eyes. :D


End file.
